


Oath of the Crystal Dagger

by WandersUnderStarlight



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Historical, Feudal AU, Insanity, M/M, Minor Character Death, War (but not that one), hidden identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-10 04:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandersUnderStarlight/pseuds/WandersUnderStarlight
Summary: Growing up as the "spare" prince of Polyhex has its downsides. After sneaking out of the palace, Jazz makes a friend who might very well change his future.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, Ricochet/Smokescreen
Comments: 144
Kudos: 427
Collections: Good Shit To Read Again AKA GSTRA, Suggested Good Reads





	1. Chapter 1

Jazz huffed as he walked, anger and hurt still simmering just under the surface of his carefree gait. His big brother had been mercilessly teasing him again, so he’d snuck out to his favorite clearing in the crystal forest. The mechling was happy to get away from the boring old castle. Let Ricochet meet all those boring old dignitaries from Praxus, he was the _heir_, after all. As he’d been so gleefully saying, Jazz was just the _spare_. 

Rico could be so mean sometimes!

Well, whatever! Jazz didn’t want to meet them anyway, even if the Praxian prince was supposed to be about their age. If he was anything like Ricochet, Jazz would rather get in trouble for being absent.

Jazz sat down in the soft tin-grass, legs splayed out in front of him, without a care for the properness of posture. He unsubspaced the items he’d “borrowed” from the laundry and kitchen. A small, soft silk-steel mesh that he put on the ground and two sealed containers that he put on top of that. One container held a hefty bundle of rust sticks (the dark, dark maroon kind, his favorite!) and the other was full of mercury infused energon.

He munched happily on a few rust sticks, pedes wagging back and forth in the tin-grass. He leaned back on his servos and looked up at the clear sky through the towering multicolored crystal branches. Each branch sparkled and shimmered in the light, casting rainbows down into his hidden little sanctuary.

Who’d want to be inside on a cycle like this anyway?

Though…

Jazz sighed a little sigh through his vents and let himself fall back onto the tingrass, turning off his optical center.

It did still hurt when he wasn’t included. When he was told over and over again, “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that little Jazzy,” and “Just go play in your room, Jazz, this is for important state business,” or “We only need Ricochet for this meeting, go on now.”

Granted, he was actually _supposed_ to be at this particular meeting. The Praxian royal party and retinue had arrived late, late in the dark cycle when most of the castle had been recharging. 

They were supposed to be doing the formal meet and greet now, but after a pointed jab by his older brother about how it didn’t really matter if he was there because no bot was going to notice him anyway, he’d run from the room before the attending servants could catch him; unceremoniously shedding the ceremonial garb on his way out the door. Hopefully he’d gotten away before Ricochet could see the glimmering tears of optical cleanser running down his cheek.

If Ricochet wanted to be the only bot in the spotlight, then he could do the meet and greet _by himself_!

Jazz was only a few vorns younger than Ricochet, and yet his elder brother got all of Sire’s attention. It wasn’t fair!

Maybe… maybe if their carrier was still functioning, he’d be spending all of that time by himself with him…

Jazz sighed again, feeling the good mood brought on by being in his favorite place slipping away. 

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

Jazz yelped in surprise at the sudden voice, bolting upright, optical center snapping back on. He looked in the direction of the voice, prepared to make excuses as to why one of the princes of Polyhex was not in the castle meeting a foreign delegation like he was supposed to, only to have the words catch in his vocalizer.

The intruder into his sanctuary was another mechling around his age. He was obviously not a Polyhexian. He had no audial horns, not even stubs. Though his plating colors were sort of similar to Jazz’s own black and white, he had no accent colors save for a golden crest on his helm that displayed a shiny red chevron. And wings on his back. Not big ones like the pictures of Seekers Jazz had seen, but small ones that looked like they were the doors of his alt mode, arched back and out over his shoulder pauldrons making him look bigger than he actually was.

“I’m not lost. What are you doing in my meadow?” Jazz said, mouth getting the better of him.

The mechling gave a confused look. “Your meadow, is it? Forgive me for intruding.” 

He took a step back and Jazz, suddenly not wanting to be alone and so-very-intrigued by this strange new mechling, found himself saying, “Wait! I don’t mind sharing. I have rust sticks and energon.”

The strange mechling stopped retreating, doorwings doing a set of movements that Jazz didn’t understand. After a klik, a very small smile lit his faceplates. “Are those the dark ones? I like those.”

“Me too! The light colored ones are so sweet they make my denta ache.” Jazz said happily, patting the spot beside him, inviting the mechling to sit down.

He did so and accepted a rust stick. “Yeah, I don’t know how my cousin can just gorge himself on those kind.”

“I know, right? My brother will eat them until he makes himself sick unless the ser-er, I mean, unless somebot stops him.” Jazz spontaneously decided that he didn’t want his new friend to know he was a prince. The mechling might do something weird like start bowing to him. He didn’t want that!

“I am called Pantera.” The mechling said with a little wing dip.

“I’m… Folgore.” Jazz said, giving the nickname his carrier had called him.

Pantera smiled, “Nice to meet you.”

They sat munching their snack until Jazz noticed something. “Oh, wow! You have a sword!” He hadn’t even noticed it at first, magnetized to the mechling’s back between his, admittedly much more interesting, doorwings. It was a beautiful thing that looked more like a piece of art in his sire’s gallery than a weapon. The hilt and blade were both made of a white, pearlescent metal that matched the mechling’s white plating. Geometric designs were etched from tip to tip.

“Oh, yes,” Pantera said, as if it was nothing special, “I’m training to be a knight.”

“That’s amazing! I wish I could be a knight.” Jazz said wistfully.

The mechling tilted his helm, confused, “Why can’t you?”

Because he was the spare. And spares were the bargaining chips of their creators and future sibling rulers. Because spares had to learn to be the paramount carriers for whatever lord they were bonded off to. And it wasn’t proper for carriers to wield melee weapons.

But all Jazz mumbled was, “Because my sire doesn't want me to. I know how to use an elctro-crossbow.”

“Those are only good for offence and if you have range. You should at least know how to defend yourself.” Pantera asserted.

“I want to learn,” Jazz confessed, “but no bot will teach me.”

More like, no bot would dare the fury of his sire if they were found out.

“I will teach you.” The doorwinged mechling said.

Jazz perked up. “You will?”

Pantera hesitated for just a klik, “Well, I’m only going to be here for as long as my creators are, and that’s only a deca-cycle, so maybe I can’t teach you about the sword,” Before Jazz could deflate at that, the mechling continued, “but I can teach you how to use a dagger.”

_“Really?”_ Jazz totally did not squeak. His elocution tutor would be appalled.

The mechling nodded and pulled a dagger _out of his subspace_.

If Jazz had thought the sword was pretty, it was nothing compared to the dagger. The hilt was intricate and embellished shining black metal, while the blade was made of sparkling crystal.

“Woah. Won’t the crystal break if you hit something with it?” Jazz asked.

“It’s made of diamond.” Pantera explained. He handed the dagger handle first to Jazz. “Here.”

“Um, okay.” Jazz took the dagger. It felt heavy and intimidating in his servo.

“Like this,” The mechling’s servo was suddenly on his own, correcting his grip, “if you hold it like that you might drop it and cut yourself.”

They graduated from sitting and holding the dagger to standing and practicing swinging it back and forth. The winged mechling stood behind Jazz guiding the movement of his arm. Through the whole lesson, though he was striving to pay attention, Jazz was smiling, feeling happy and warm.

And they didn’t just practice with the dagger. They shared the rest of the energon Jazz had brought, they talked about their favorite music, crystals they liked, favorite foods. And Jazz found out that Pantera was a Praxian, he’d come with the delegation, though he wasn’t required at the meeting and decided to go exploring.

Jazz had never been so happy that he’d snuck out, that he almost forgave Ricochet for his hurtful words earlier.

After several joors Jazz looked reluctantly at the waning light. “I should go… my sire is probably going to send out everybot to look for me.”

“I should go, too.” The other mechling sounded as reluctant as he felt. “But we can meet here tomorrow?”

Jazz would scale down the castle wall with his knotted berth meshes if he had to.

“Yes! I’ll meet you here after the mid-cycle bells ring.” He promised.

“See you tomorrow, Folgore.”

“Until tomorrow, Pantera!”

It was totally worth the mighty scolding he got when he arrived back in the palace. But he was saved from any true punishment because the Praxian contingent had asked to move the formal meet and greet to another cycle. Their crown prince had fallen ill on the journey to visit their Polyhexian neighbors. Fortunately, it just looked to be a case of travel-sickness and not anything more serious. He just needed time to recover. The meeting was now scheduled for two cycles from thence and everybot was hopeful that the prince would be feeling better by then.

The Praxian nobility were being given the best guest lodging in the eastern wing of the palace. Since the Polyhexian royal family lived in the western wing of the palace, it was unlikely that Jazz would run across his new friend in the castle itself. It would be rude to attempt to seek him out in the eastern wing before the contingent had been properly met. And Pantera didn’t know that Jazz even _lived_ in the palace.

And… Jazz sort of didn’t want Pantera to know he was one of the princes. Oh, it was bound to come out before the visit was over, but it was fun to have a friend who didn’t know about his rank. Pantera probably didn’t think that ‘Folgore’ was a commoner by any means; the rust sticks and quality of the energon would have given that away, but certainly not as high of a rank as prince.

While Jazz did truly wish for the Praxian prince to get better, this also meant that he could sneak out of the palace much more easily! The staff, his sire, and his brother would be too busy playing host to their guests to pay Jazz any mind. And while just this morning that would have made him depressed, now he had his new friend to meet in his meadow.

He couldn’t wait to see Pantera the next cycle.

Later that evening, Ricochet guiltily came into Jazz’s room with an apology tart he’d probably swiped from the kitchens. Though older, Ricochet was the same size as Jazz and they looked so similar in frame that bots often joked that they should have been twins. Though their structures were where the similarities ended.

Their coloring was opposite. Where Jazz had black, Ricochet had white and vise-versa. And where Jazz’s visor was blue like their carrier’s, Ricochet has gotten their sire’s orange. They also had very different accents; Jazz opted for simple red and blue racing stripes, Ricochet had a much more elaborate flame pattern on his chestplates.

Their temperaments differed greatly as well. Jazz was mellow and even-tempered, Ricochet was headstrong and outspoken. But they cared for each other greatly even if they sometimes didn’t always get along.

“I’m sorry I made you cry.” Ricochet said remorsefully, crawling up onto the berth with his brother when Jazz let him. “I didn’t mean any of those things, I was just nervous. Sire said if anything went wrong it would be my fault.”

“That’s not true.” Jazz replied. “Sire can’t blame you for the prince getting sick.”

Ricochet let out a vent. “I don’t think he does, but he’s gotten so strange lately.”

“I know.”

They snuggled together and split the tart between them.

Jazz was worried. Sire had become more and more unpredictable as of late. He heard the whispers from the servants when they thought no bot was listening. The king hadn’t followed his bonded to the well when their carrier died. At first, he was lauded because he claimed he was staying alive to nurture his creations until they were grown; a final promise to his beloved mate. But as the vorns wore on and he lingered, he became… unstable. Volatile mood swings. Bouts of fugue. A temper that could be fickle and capricious.

Mad, they called him; the Forsaken King.

“I wish you had been here.” Ricochet said. “I was so bored, I had to listen to Sire and his advisers talk _all_ cycle. I didn’t even get to meet any of the Praxians.”

Jazz considered telling Ricochet about Pantera for half a klik, just to see his faceplates when he realized that Jazz _had_ met a Praxian today, but decided against it. He wanted Pantera to be his secret for now.

“I just went to the market,” he lied.

“I’m still jealous. You’re lucky,” Ricochet sighed.

“I don’t feel like it sometimes.”

Ricochet tensed a little and then hugged Jazz tighter. “I’m sorry, again. Just hit me next time, okay?”

Jazz giggled and then pounced on Ricochet, tickling him. “If you insist!”

“Hey!” Ricochet’s engine sputtered with his laughter. They wrestled playfully until they both flopped over in mutual surrender. They fell into recharge nestled together.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picnic and a royal meeting

Jazz was impatient during his morning prayers and even more so in his lessons. Their tutor crossly scolded him for inattentiveness twice, while Ricochet made faces at him and got away with it.

Unfair!

But finally, (finally!) Jazz made his escape. He snuck into the kitchens. This time he actually asked the old cook if he could have some refreshments for a “walk in the garden”. The mech had a soft spot for him and not only packed him another bundle of dark rust sticks, but also a jar of his favorite jellied minerals, some sillica wafers and a thermos of ener-tea. It was all placed nicely in a woven tin-grass basket. He thanked the cook kindly and put the basket securely in his subspace. After that it was a fairly easy task to sneak out of a servant’s door and away from the palace.

He made it to his clearing just as the mid-cycle bells rang. He sat down and waited as patiently as he could.

It was hard, though. He kept wondering if Pantera would even show up. What if the mechling had gotten lost? What if he couldn’t come today? What if he’d only pretended to like Jazz?

He needn’t have worried. A few breems after he’d gotten himself settled, Pantera walked, almost soundlessly, into the clearing.

“Hello, Folgore.”

Jazz bounced up and over to him, giddily gave his new friend a hug. “Hi Pantera!”

He didn’t miss how the mechling tensed a little in the embrace.

“Oh sorry, do you not like being touched? I should have asked first.” Jazz said with concern, pulling away.

“No, it’s not that, I just wasn’t expecting it.” Pantera said. “I… don’t mind. It was nice.”

Jazz smiled and took the mechling’s hand, “Let’s sit. Snacks first, then we can play, or maybe have another dagger lesson. Whichever.”

Pantera smiled back at him.

Jazz laid out their little mini-picnic, playing host as he’d been taught was proper; even if they were two underage mechlings in the middle of the crystal forest.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re not at the palace right now?” Jazz asked curiously. “I mean, everybot in Polyhex knows the Praxian royal family is visiting, so how come you aren’t with them?”

“I like exploring, but if I do that inside the palace, I might cause a “diplomatic incident”. But no bot said I couldn’t explore outside the palace.” Pantera said, cleverly. He dipped a wafer in the jelly and ate it delicately.

“I guess that’s true.” Jazz said, smiling. He nibbled a rust stick and sipped from the thermos. Then he offered it to the other mechling.

Pantera took it and drank before continuing. “My carrier says I’m too good at finding loopholes in rules, but they didn’t mind it so much this time. As long as I stay out of trouble and come back before the dark-cycle, they said I could come out here.”

“I’m glad you did,” Jazz said earnestly, “If you hadn’t I wouldn’t have met you.”

Pantera smiled, EMF radiating pleasure, “I am glad I did as well.”

Jazz spent the next two afternoons playing with and learning how to wield a dagger from Pantera. He brought cards and dice to teach the other youngling Polyhexian games. He even brought his flute to play for his new friend. He wasn’t trying to show off, but he was very good at it, having been taught since he was able to hold it. He actually had a plethora of musical instruments to play. Once he’d shown a talent, he’d been given whatever instrument that his spark desired.

Pantera readily admitted to having no musical talent despite also having taken lessons from a young age. He was happy to listen to Jazz play, doorwings bobbing gently up and down in time with the melody.

It was about this time that Jazz realized he might be infatuated with the other mechling. It was a nice feeling. Pantera was intelligent and attentive. His smiles were always small, but genuine. He was quiet and graceful in his movements and Jazz wondered if the mechling might secretly be a dancer. 

Jazz longed to ask what the mechling thought of _him_, but he wasn’t so self-absorbed that it was necessary. Jazz was just happy to spend time with the young Praxian. 

He was very understanding when Jazz had to excuse himself for the next cycle, even without a good explanation other than he had a “family obligation”. While Jazz was reluctant to squander any time he might be spending with his new friend, the next cycle was the rescheduled meeting with the Praxian royal family. Jazz would have _rather_ been out in the forest with Pantera, but he didn’t want to get Ricochet or himself in real trouble by skipping it this time.

The cycle of the meet and greet, the princes were primmed and trimmed with their ceremonial garb; ornate mesh cloaks wrapped and magnetically pinned to their plating. Their diadems were secured to their helms, polished and perfect (even though Jazz’s had taken a tumble when he threw it a couple cycles ago).

They stood and waited with their sire on the throne room dais, standing on either side of him. This was only a small gathering, just the families, their guards and a few servants. It was a way for the noble families to get to know each other in a more personal setting. There would be a grand party on the dark cycle before they were scheduled to leave that would be a huge spectacle when all the aristocracy of Polyhex would be invited.

The Praxian king and queen were tall and elegant with large ornamented doorwings. King Cloudburst and Queen Halo were like gleaming statues. Prince Smokescreen looked like he was a similar age to Pantera, but his doorwings were smaller than Jazz’s friend’s. Smokescreen was also much more colorful than the other Praxian mechling, having blue and red plating with a golden chevron. He gleamed just as much as his creators, but he didn’t yet have quite the gliding grace of the adults. Still, he was friendly and cheerful, seeming to have fully recovered from his travel-borne illness. 

After introductions Queen Halo smiled and said, “Our gracious thanks, King Recoil, for the attentiveness of the healers you sent. We knew our creation was in good servos.” 

Their sire was having a good cycle, thankfully, and laughed and joked with the other nobility as if they were old friends

Both Jazz and Ricochet were on their best behavior, chatting and playing a card game with Prince Smokescreen, while the adults talked. But they were undeniably distracted and curious about the Praxian guards that had come in with the royal family. The mechs and femmes wore full suits of crystal armor including masked helmets. The masks were set in solemn or fierce expressions. The armor must have been made of diamond like Pantera’s dagger, Jazz thought. 

“Those are our knights.” Prince Smokescreen had explained proudly when the brothers had shown interest. “They train from younglinghood and are sworn to protect us and the realm.”

And while Jazz had quickly looked to see if Pantera had perhaps come with them (knight-in-training that he was), it was apparent immediately that Prince Smokescreen was the only mechling in the small Praxian group. That meant that Pantera was with the rest of the retinue or maybe he’d been able to go outside to explore more of the forest.

Jazz noticed the adults looking over at them every now and then and he wondered if they were talking about bonding contracts. He already knew the political reasons why they might want to join their families. He’d been learning about them for as long as he could understand the concepts. They were neighbors that shared a border and engaged in vigorous trade. It would be beneficial to both countries. But he sort of hoped that they weren’t discussing bonding prospects.

Because he would be the one offered for bonding.

And Jazz wasn’t ready to have his life decided yet.

They only hope he could cling to was that, before he’d passed, carrier had made sire promise to not bring up any bonding proposals until Ricochet and Jazz had gotten their final upgrades.

Jazz tried to focus back on the game they were playing. Ricochet and Smokescreen carried most of the conversation, trading stories about harmless pranks that each had played on hapless servants in the past. Jazz laughed and put in his contributions every now and then, but he wished he could have been elsewhere. He tried to ignore the knowing glances from the adults. Tried to ignore Ricochet’s hidden, worried looks.

The throne room had never felt more stifling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to "Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance" ost on repeat while writing this. It has definitely influenced the tone of the story which means Jazz and Ricochet's sire is going to get worse and I'm going to have to add some new tags for the next chapter...


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger comes from an unexpected place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "...I thought we were writing fluff?"  
Jazz-muse: "Haha, nope!"  
Me: -.- "Oh dear. Get ready folks."
> 
> TW: ABUSE

Of course Ricochet noticed Jazz’s absences over the rest of the deca cycle. The cycle before the grand party for the Praxians, Ricochet laid in wait for his brother in Jazz’s room and “ambushed” him when he came back from his excursion into the forest. 

Ricochet looped his arms around Jazz’s shoulders conspiratorially, “I’m not going to try to make you tell me where you’ve been going,” though it looked like he really wanted to know, “but in return you have to spend time with me right now and come explore a hallway I found.”

“A hallway?” Jazz asked both curious and wary.

“There’s a door behind a tapestry. It’s like a secret passageway!” Ricochet explained with a touch of glee.

“Why is it hidden behind a tapestry?”

“I don’t know, but I want to know what’s down there.”

“Why didn’t you go yourself?”

Ricochet pouted. “I wanted you to come with me. You keep disappearing! I’ve barely seen you since the Praxians showed up. Don’t you want to spend time with your brother?” Behind the slightly comical expression of woe, there was a real spark of distress in his visor.

Jazz shoved him off playfully. “Alright, I’ll come with you.”

They darted through the halls, dodging servants and guards, who were far too used to their antics to give them much mind.

The part of the castle Ricochet led them to was on one of the lower floors; one they usually didn’t wander to. No servants or guards were around. The space felt cold and unlived in. Ricochet went for an embroidered tapestry depicting an ancient crystal forest full of beasts that was heavy-looking and ornate. The door behind it was just as ornamented. It opened under his touch with an ominous creak.

The hallway stretching out before them was dark and musty.

“What is this place?” Jazz whispered. “Has it really been here the whole time?”

“I don’t know.” Ricochet whispered back.

They crept down the hall, feeling the need to sneak even if the space seemed deserted. There was another door at the end of the hall and they hurried towards it.

It also creaked, loud and long, when it opened.

But it hid a beautiful room. Opulent furniture and meshes. A dressing table covered in jewelry. Everything lovely and grand despite being covered in layers of dust. As they walked into the room, intrigued and curious, Ricochet bumped a small box with his pede that sat just inside the doorway.

A life-sized hologram of their carrier sprang to life.

Both mechlings startled when the projection began to walk gracefully around the room; going from table to chair, smiling. It looked as if the mech was in the process of getting ready for recharge.

“I forgot how much you look like him.” Ricochet whispered, as they both watched, fascinated. It was true too. Jazz and their carrier could have been twins, though their carrier’s accents were different, of course.

Jazz was about to say something when the door creaked behind them and a familiar, yet oddly cold voice said. “What are you two doing in here?!”

They both spun around to see their sire standing in the doorway, seething. The king picked up the box from the floor and turned off the hologram. The image of their carrier faded.

“You should not be in here! This is my place!” He looked at them with a harsh glare on his visor, cradling the box jealously. He looked less like their sire and nothing so much as an angry predacon snarling over it’s horde. He focused on Ricochet. “I taught you better than to go sneaking about like a common thief!”

“It’s my fault! I asked Ricochet to come exploring with me.” Jazz squeezed his brother’s servo, silently begging him to keep quiet.

The king’s dagger gaze turned on Jazz and he swallowed nervously. Their sire had undergone vicious episodes in the past, but this was the first time Jazz felt the stirrings of fear from one. The king’s visor took on an odd gleam. He turned back to Ricochet. “Is that true?”

Jazz squeezed Ricochet’s servo tighter.

“I… yes.” his brother answered.

There was silence for a long uncomfortable moment.

“Both of you come with me.” Their sire snarled. He put the hologram projector on a table and marched them out of the room. 

They traveled down, down into another place they’d never seen before, though had heard stories of. The dark bare walls and small cells could only be the dungeon of the castle, though why he’d brought them down there, neither brother could guess. Ricochet gripped Jazz’s servo tightly. The royal family got questioning looks from the guards stationed down there, but they stayed at their posts.

The king stopped at a cell. “Jazz. Come here.” 

Jazz didn’t want to. All of his instincts were screaming at him to run away, but he couldn’t disobey his sire. With one final squeeze to Ricochet’s servo, he let go and walked on shaky legs to his sire. Was the mech going to lock him up?

The king steered him into the cell and entered it himself. A stasis field sprang to life after them, locking Ricochet outside of the room but still able to see in. 

“You two are my creations,” the king started, speaking in a low, dangerous tone, “and that means that you belong to me. You are my subjects. And I expect certain things from my subjects. I expect honesty. You cannot lie to the king.”

He turned Jazz with a rough shove towards the wall. “Put your servos on the metal plate.” He ordered. Trembling, Jazz did so. The king pressed a button next to the plate and suddenly Jazz felt his servos magnetize to it. The king moved take something down that was hanging from the wall.

“Lying to the king is an act of treason. And I will not have traitors among my subjects!”

Jazz couldn’t move to try and turn to see what his sire was doing, but he heard Ricochet’s gasp of horror and a yelled, “No!” before the crack of an elecro-whip split the air and painful fire raced down his back plates. He knew what an electro-whip sounded like because he’d once seen a farmer driving a herd of titanium-oxen, cracking the whip over the mecha-animals to keep them moving, but the farmer had never touched the creatures with the whip, just used the sound.

Now he knew why.

It felt like strips of his protoform were being removed with every strike. He screamed in agony.

Under the sounds of the whip cracking again and again and his own shrieks, Jazz heard the far-away cacophony of Ricochet beating his servos against the stasis field and howling at their sire to stop. “It was me! I made him go into the room! Stop it! Stop hurting him! Help! Somebot help, please!”

“Your Majesty!?” A new voice joined chaotic din. The sound of the stasis field cut out and suddenly the rain of torment on Jazz’s back stopped. Ricochet was at his side the next instant, half covering his back protectively. Jazz lifted his helm painfully and looked over his shoulder. One guard had been brave (or suicidal) enough to confront the king. The electo-whip was wrapped around his forearm like an angry glowing cryosnake from where he’d caught it to stop the next strike. The guard was carefully keeping his gaze to the floor.

“Your Majesty please, I beg you! If I need to take his place, I will, but please stop hurting Prince Jazz!”

Another long moment of silence passed only broken by Jazz trying to hold in his sobs.

Some of the madness cleared from their sire’s visor. He looked down at his creations and dropped the end of the electro-whip. “...Take him to a healer immediately, I don’t want those scarring.” The king turned cold, flat optics onto Ricochet. “I hope this teaches both of you to never lie to me. I hold your fate in my servos. And you will swear to never go into that room again.”

Ricochet just stared, uncomprehendingly, at the monster wearing his sire’s protoform.

“Swear it!” The king snapped.

Ricochet jumped. “...I swear.”

The king stalked out of the cell.

The guard immediately called the palace’s master healer to the cells and instructed them to bring a stretcher. He turned off the magnetized plate and gently lowered Jazz to lay frontways across his lap; the only sort of comfortable position the mechling could be in due to the injury to his back plates.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, my Prince.” He said regretfully.

“You tried.” Jazz whispered. “And that matters.”

“What’s your name?” Ricochet asked.

“Stepper, Your Highness.”

“Stepper,” Ricochet repeated, “I won’t forget what you did.”

The guard stayed with them until the master healer came and, horrified, rushed Jazz up to the infirmary.

Ricochet bullied his way into Jazz’s room and laid on the berth with him while the healers medicated and wrapped his back. The healers had needed to put bandages on his servos as well since he’d beaten them bloody on the stasis field.

Ricochet held Jazz’s servo as tightly as he could with his wrapped servo, helms nearly touching on a shared pillow. “When I’m king,” he murmured, “I’ll make it illegal to hurt you.”

“Tha’s nice.” Jazz slurred as the medication and exhaustion of trauma pushed him towards recharge. “You’ll make a good king.”

“I won’t let him hurt you again.” Ricochet promised fiercely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously... it's the music.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz has to say goodbye to his Praxian friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazz-muse: "Here, have some fluff after that last chapter." _Beans author in the head with a bag of fiber-fill._  
Me: "...Thanks."

Jazz came out of recharge aching. He vaguely remembered Ricochet getting up at some point to start his morning. The crown prince had duties and expectations of him, otherwise Jazz was sure his brother would have stayed with him all cycle.

He carefully, carefully sat up. A cup of brightly glowing medi-grade sat on his berthside table waiting for him. It must have been laced with more pain dampening minerals, because it was far more bitter than it should have been and a few breems later Jazz’s back felt numb.

A quick check of his chronometer told him it was past mid-morning. Usually he would never have been permitted to recharge so long, but his current injury was anything but usual.

He had to get up.

Pantera would be waiting for him come the mid-cycle bells one last time. And he _couldn’t_ miss this meeting. The Praxians would be leaving early the next morning and there was no way his sire was going to let him be seen in the state he was. It would raise too many questions.

No grand party. No way for the truth to come out.

And that was okay…

He wanted his friend to remember him as Folgore, not as the prince that lied to him.

If he wanted to say goodbye, he’d have to go now.

Perhaps fortuitously, his room was empty of servants at the moment. Somebot was likely to come check on him any breem now, but most of the castle staff was probably focused on decorating the palace for the party.

Jazz got up and pulled a simple grey cloak out of his wardrobe. It would cover the bandages on his back. He didn’t dare stop for treats in the kitchens. Word would have spread from guards to servants by now and he didn’t want to be sent back to berth by the cook fussing over him. He had a mission!

Despite his injury, Jazz managed to make it out of the palace to the clearing in the forest. But, oh, how he ached! There were parts of his frame he’d never known existed that twinged with sore rebukes.

As the mid-cycle bells tolled, Pantera walked into the clearing. Jazz smiled with happiness despite the way his back throbbed. He tried to summon up his normal energy, but even he could hear the fatigue in his own voice as he said. “Hi, Pantera.”

And, of course, the astute mechling noticed it as well. “Hello, Folgore. Is something wrong? You sound tired.”

Jazz shook his helm, “I’m just a little sad, is all. You’ll be leaving tomorrow and I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again.”

“Maybe not right away.” Pantera said logically. “But when we’re older we’ll be able to travel whenever we want. I would love to show you my home.”

Jazz’s spark gave a little flutter, even if it seemed like an impossible recharge-flux. “I would like that. But for now, maybe you can tell me about your home?”

So Pantera sat beside him and described the estate where he lived. He told Jazz about the surrounding forests and lakes of his sire’s lands. About the gentle petrodeer and the wild turbowolves; the free flying cryfalcons and the foolish zipsquirrels. 

It was the most Pantera had spoken in one sitting apart from when he taught Jazz how to wield a dagger. Jazz happily listened to his friend talk, wishing that he’d been born in Praxus or that they could have met sooner or differently. He imagined them driving through the Praxian forests together like the petrodeer. Free and unburdened by duty.

Jazz leaned his helm on Pantera’s shoulder. Unexpectedly, Pantera put his arm around Jazz’s shoulders. It would have been nice; Pantera didn’t usually show much physical affection, but unfortunately, his arm was laying across Jazz’s back.

Jazz involuntarily whimpered in pain, unable to bite the sound back.

Pantera stiffened in surprise. His doorwings twitched rapidly, optics sharpening keenly. He removed his arm and knelt behind Jazz. Before Jazz could protest, Pantera’s servos came around his helm and carefully unclasped the cloak from his neck. It fell away and exposed his back.

“Who did this to you?” Pantera asked, horrified; servos hovering over the bandages, but not touching.

Seeing no reason to lie because there was nothing the other mechling could do about it, Jazz answered weakly, “My sire. But I went into a room I wasn’t supposed to with my brother and he would have beaten Rico if I hadn’t said it was my idea.”

“That’s no reason for… for _this_.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll heal up soon, we have the best healers looking after me.”

Pantera shuffled so that he and Jazz could see each other’s opticals. “When was the last time you had medi-grade? You shouldn’t have come out here. Your wounds could get infected.”

Jazz felt warmed by Pantera’s concern. “I didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye. I’m going to miss you… so much. I wish… I wish my brother and I could go with you.”

Pantera gave him a solemn look. He unsubbed his crystal dagger.

“Here,” he said holding out to the other mechling. “Keep it.”

Jazz’s visor flickered with his surprise. “I… I couldn’t possibly-”

He pressed the handle into Jazz’s servo. “It’s a gift. And a promise.”

Like one of the characters in the tales told by the traveling minstrels that came to court, Pantera asserted, “I promise that when I’m a knight, I’ll come back and rescue you. I swear it on my life.”

Jazz smiled helplessly and clutched the dagger to his chestplates. “...Okay.”

Feeling the need to give Pantera something in return, he reached in his own subspace and pulled out a small kerchief that his carrier had embroidered for him when he’d been given his official title as prince of the realm. Just barely able to toddle at the time and with no real understanding of what was going on. The corner of the kerchief depicted his personal heraldry; a silver hawk and a golden harp on a split background of blue and white. It was precious to him, but he felt like the dagger was precious to Pantera and only an equal exchange would do.

He offered it to Pantera. “I want you to have this.” _Please don’t forget me._

Pantera took it, studying the intricate needlework with a smile. “It’s beautiful. I will treasure it.”

They stood smiling at one another for a moment until Jazz’s back gave an uncomfortable twinge. He unsuccessfully tried to hide a wince. “I… I should go. Bots will be looking for me soon.”

Pantera’s face fell into a concerned frown. “Be careful.”

“I will be.” Jazz felt tears threatening to form. He refused to cry in front of Pantera! He wasn’t a sparkling anymore! He turned to leave.

“Folgore, wait!” Pantera’s servo suddenly caught his.

Jazz turned back towards his friend and right into the soft press of dermas against his own. It was just a brush, so short that it took Jazz a klik to realize that he’d been kissed.

He stared at Pantera in astonishment. “Why?”

“Because I like you.” Pantera murmured.

“I like you too.” Jazz whispered back.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party Ricochet can't enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse demanded some Smokescreen/Ricochet.

Ricochet hid his anxiety behind a mask of neutrality as he stood beside his sire on the dais. The sending away party for the Praxian royal family was in full swing. Aristocrats mingled with the foreigners, polite murmuring and soft music filled the court.

The young prince covertly glanced at the doors, wishing he could be upstairs comforting Jazz.

He’d been angry at his brother for sneaking out of the palace _again_ (especially since he was injured!) until Jazz had come back looking depressed and uncharacteristically silent. Ricochet’s anger had fizzled out, replaced by worry. But he’d had no time to talk to Jazz before the servants had come and swept Ricochet away to get ready for the party. He’d last seen Jazz as the door to his bother’s room shut behind him, closing off the sight of Jazz’s sorrowful faceplates.

Their sire had forbid Jazz from coming to the party. His injury was too visible and would raise too many questions. Ricochet was being forced to hide his under a pair of fine petro-deer protomesh gloves. His servos _ached_.

All of the servants and guards had been told that Jazz had “fallen ill” and were to not answer any other questions about it. But Ricochet knew the gossip had already spread to the palace staff about what really happened, if the hidden worried and pitying glances his way were any indication. But so far, it seemed as if they had managed to keep it from their guests.

Queen Halo and Prince Smokescreen approached the dais. They dipped their doorwings gracefully to the king and prince (a sign of respect amongst Praxians, Ricochet had learned),

“This is such a lovely party, King Recoil,” Queen Halo said charmingly, “might Prince Smokescreen borrow Prince Ricochet for a bit? We would love to teach the court a tradidional Praxian dance.”

Ricochet’s sire smiled indulgently (and how had he never noticed how fake it looked before now?), “Why, of course.”

Ricochet nearly balked. He wasn’t a good dancer, not like Jazz was. But… Jazz wasn’t here, was he? If he had been, it might have been him invited out to dance rather than Ricochet.

His sire pushed him instantly with a servo to his back. “Go on now. Don’t be _shy_.”

Ricochet wondered if he was the only bot who could hear the threat in the king’s voice.

It didn’t seem like Smokescreen could because the other prince merely held out a servo invitingly. Ricochet took it, hiding his wince as it put pressure on his sore servo.

He did his best to pay attention to the Queen explaining the steps. Fortunately, it was a fairly simple court dance, similar enough to Polyhexian ones that Ricochet felt a little of his apprehension go away. They danced in pairs; he with Prince Smokescreen, of course.

After the instructions were over and the court musicians began to play, Smokescreen started up a conversation as they danced.

“Are you alright, Prince Ricochet?”

Ricochet did his best to keep his face and EMF devoid of dismay. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“I can tell you’re worried.” The Praxian prince’s optics dimmed in sympathy. “I’m very sorry that your brother fell ill. And so suddenly. He seemed fine when we met.”

“Yes. It was a shock.” Ricochet put the truth into his words. “He was sad not to be able to attend, but hopefully he’ll be better soon.”

“I hope so, too. You both are so nice to talk to. I’m glad you were here for the party.” Smokescreen smiled kindly at him. 

For some reason, this made Ricochet feel warm and a bit bashful. They continued to speak softly. It soon became obvious that the Praxian prince was attempting to distract him from his own processor. And it was… nice. It was nice to be able to talk to somebot his own age. 

There was Jazz, of course, but he was his brother. Prince Smokescreen was one of the first peers he’d met that was his age. The other young mechlings and femmelings at court were beneath him in station and always on their best behavior when he saw them because they’d come to the palace for court with their creators.

Prince Smokescreen was like Ricochet. And he was funny and handsome… for a Praxian.

Though he was still anxious for Jazz, Ricochet found himself smiling tentatively at the other prince before too long. Then he caught sight of his sire approaching them. The king’s face set in an unreadable mask.

Ricochet’s smile faltered.

“What’s wrong?” Smokescreen asked, concerned.

“N-nothing.” Primus, he was a terrible liar.

Smokescreen’s doorwings flicked back and forth for a klik, his optics turned keen. Then he smiled again. “I should introduce you to my cousin. I’m sure you’ll get along. Come on.” He stopped dancing and made as if to lead Ricochet off to the side of the room.

Before Ricochet could take even a step, he felt a heavy servo land on his shoulder pauldron. His servo slipped out of Smokescreen’s as his sire held him in place. Ricochet saw a quickly masked look of dismay on the Praxian prince’s face as the king turned him by the shoulder to face him. Ricochet knew his sire well enough to see the edges of anger sparking around his optics.

He didn’t know what he’d done. In fact, he’d been doing what the king had told him to do!

“Enough of this frivolity.” King Recoil ground out, just thinly keeping up the veneer of civility. “I’m sure your brother is still ailing. Go. Care for him. You are no longer needed at this event.”

What? Why? How would that reflect on them to their guests? Ricochet had been learning statecraft since he could speak. Sending him away now made no sense. What had angered his sire? All he had done was talk with to Prince Smokescreen and play attentive host.

“S-sire, why-?”

The servo tightened on his shoulder pauldron painfully. Ricochet bit back a gasp.

“You know better than to question me, mechling. _Go_. We don’t want Jazz’s condition to grow worse now do we?” The king’s optics were cold and flat.

Dread flared through Ricochet’s spark. If Ricochet disobeyed, would Jazz be beaten again? “Y-yes, sir- I mean, no sir! I’ll go.”

It took every ounce of willpower not to bolt from the room. He could see the servants and the nobility near them who’d heard the exchange whispering amongst themselves as he started to leave.

_Stop gossiping and help!_ He thought hopelessly.

Smokescreen called out unexpectedly. “I’ll write to you!”

Unwilling to be rude and praying that it would not anger his sire further, Ricochet called back over his shoulder. “I look forward to your letters!”

Those were the last words he spoke to the other prince before the great doors to the hall closed behind him.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Princes have grown up... and the King still lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's do the time skip again!

_20 Vorns Later._

The Forsaken King was still in power… and he had grown worse as he lingered.

Things had changed in the Polyhexian court. Ever since that last Praxian envoy, King Recoil had begun to shut Polyhex off from its allies and neighbors. Their borders were as good as closed; travel in and out of the city-state was nearly impossible.

Ricochet and Jazz had both attained their majority, having gotten their final upgrades vorns ago. It should have made things better… it had not.

The brothers had grown up on a knife’s edge, trying to stay out of their sire’s way. He constantly threatened to punish one brother if the other stepped out of line. Mostly Jazz to keep a tight hold over Ricochet. He’d also grown both strangely possessive and bitterly jealous of his own creations.

He watched them suspiciously for any signs of treachery, but also kept them uncomfortably close to him, turning away any prospective bonding contracts sent by foreign envoys. It was as if he feared the support of a bonded partner would turn Ricochet against him, and Jazz… well, Jazz had it worse.

His final upgrade had seen him grow into the beautiful spitting image of his carrier. Graceful and kind. Unfortunately, his sire had noticed and sometimes he would mistake his youngest creation for the bondmate he’d lost. Proposed bonding contracts with Jazz’s designation on them would send the King into apoplectic fits of rage.

King Recoil still thought he held sway over all power in the court, blind to the factions that had sprung up. Yes, the King still had a small collection of aristocrats immediately around him, but they had long been attempting to control and guide him to their whims. Some wanted to keep the realm stable; some wanted to get as much political power as possible. Playing this political game, however, could have dire consequences with the mental instability of their monarch.

Ricochet and Jazz, on the other servo, had formed their own counter-court; mechs and femmes loyal to them. Amongst their followers was Stepper, the guard who had stood up for Jazz so long ago. Ricochet had ensured he’d been well rewarded for his loyalty with grants of land and shinax and a title. He was now the Captain of the Guard in the castle. Another bot in Ricochet’s entourage was a lordling named Meister who’s own sire was “part” of the King’s court, but played spy for her creation. They made sure to keep Ricochet appraised of his sire’s movements.

Time at court always seemed to drag out uncomfortably. The king was having one of his lucid, but odd, cycles.

He stared into the middle distance, seemingly looking at nothing, from his throne. Almost as if he was recharging sitting up with his visor online. Courtiers politely hid their boredom behind steel-silk fans or by speaking together of planned hunting trips. Many of them preferred it this way. The alternative was a glowering, seething king; angry at nothing, but ready to take it out on any who displeased him.

Jazz stood with Ricochet, off to the side. They had been there all morning, and the younger prince was contemplating how to subtly make his escape. Ricochet stifled a yawn. These were the slow cycles at court. It was always better to plan and subterfuge either outside of the great hall’s walls or on the cycles when the king was distracted by his own volatile temper. 

Jazz sent a questioning helm tilt at Ricochet. His brother gave the barest hint of a nod in return.

Good. He wouldn’t be upset if Jazz slipped out of the hall to spend his afternoon out from under watchful optics. Maybe he could practice his lute.

Unfortunately, Jazz’s path to the door led him past the gaze of the king.

King Recoil finally seemed to perk up from his sort of waking recharge. He smiled strangely and beckoned to Jazz to come to his side.

With a sinking feeling in his spark, Jazz approached. He could see Ricochet tense up out of the periphery of his vision.

“Come sit beside me, my dear.” King Recoil said with a worrying absence in the shine of his visor.

Since there was no chair beside the throne, Jazz was forced at his sire’s urging to kneel at the old mech’s pedes. The king began to pet his helm. The courtiers in Jazz’s line of sight were all watching the scene with worry and dismay.

“There now, Rhythm, that’s better. How beautiful you look this cycle.”

A cold lump of dread took place of his spark. His sire had called him by his carrier’s name again.

Jazz swallowed nervously and murmured. “I’m Jazz, Sire.”

The king continued to stroke Jazz’s audial horn. The same strangely absent look on his faceplates. “Of course you are.” He said indulgently. As if they were playing some sort of game. The king’s EMF curled amorously against his own.

Jazz held in a shudder of revulsion.

His processor raced to figure a way to extricate himself without enraging his sire before the mech got more… touchy.

He saw Ricochet step forward, faceplates set in a determined scowl. Jazz tried to use his visor to convey a silent message to his brother to just leave it alone. A message Ricochet seemed to be ignoring. Jazz didn’t want Ricochet to get punished for trying to help him.

The doors of the great hall flew open. A mech wearing the badge of the Courier Guild rushed in and up to the throne.

“Your Majesty! I have urgent tidings from the borderlands.”

The King removed his servo from Jazz’s helm and gave his attention to the messenger. 

“Speak.” King Recoil said impatiently.

“Marquess Portrait has confirmed the sightings of Praxian patrols on the border. They… they have begun amassing their army on the eastern border.”

The King’s reaction was immediate and explosive.

He surged up from his throne, grabbing a sword from his subspace. He advanced on the poor mech, shaking the blade threateningly at the courier roaring about how he brought treachery into the court. Jazz took the opportunity to stealthily get up and ease away from the unstable mech. He backed up until he was in the nearest crowd of courtiers, several of whom moved to close ranks around him and obscure him from sight.

The King commanded that the messenger be arrested, despite the mech’s frightened protests.

Fortunately, before the encounter could collapse any further into chaos, Stepper appeared beside the terrified messenger and assure the King that he would “take care of the miscreant.”.

Jazz breathed a sigh of relief. Stepper would see that the courier was safely escorted out of the palace, with the King none the wiser.

Court was over after that. The King was in too much of a rage for anything of substance to get done. And anyway, he’d stormed out of the great hall, sword in servo, snarling for his advisors to follow him.

Jazz retired to his solar, spending the afternoon idly strumming on his lute. He would have liked to have spent some of that time practicing with his daggers, but he still had to do so covertly and there was no way he’d be able to get out to his clearing after the fiasco at court. The only one who knew he’d taken up a melee skill was Ricochet, who’d secretly commissioned a second dagger to go with the first one he’d been gifted. It wasn’t made of crystal, of course; it was just a regular energon dagger.

Reflecting of the dagger made him think of how the relationship between Praxus and Polyhex had deteriorated. He frowned sadly.

Smokescreen was the Praxian king now. His creators had passed to the Well several vorns ago. Since his ascension to the throne, Jazz and Ricochet’s sire had allowed (and even encouraged) raids on their Praxian neighbors.

Was it any wonder that they were retaliating?

As the sun began to set, a servant brought in dinner followed closely by Ricochet. They often shared their meals in their rooms unless forced to go to a more “formal”, and usually more uncomfortable, meal with their sire.

Tonight’s meal was a bit more sombre than usual; Ricochet only sipping at his energon despondently.

“Rico, are you alright?” Jazz asked gently. “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

“He trusted me.” Ricochet murmured dejectedly.

Jazz didn’t have to ask who the “he” was. Ricochet had been trying desperately to keep the peace between Polyhex and Praxus by corresponding secretly with Smokescreen. The two had been exchanging furtive letters ever since that diplomatic meeting when they were younger. But now…

“Still no word?” Jazz guessed with sympathy.

Ricochet shook his helm negatively, depression weighing his field down.

A few orns ago Smokescreen’s letters had stopped.

Ricochet continued to write to him even though he received no answer.

Ricochet looked up into Jazz’s visor from his blank contemplation of the tabletop. “...Do you think…?” Ricochet vented deeply and sighed. “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with somebot through written glyphs alone? I only spoke to him twice as a youngling, but in our letters we’ve shared so much with each other…”

Jazz thought about the crystal dagger hidden in his subspace. The reminder of a promise made by a mechling long ago. His very first love. “I think it’s possible to fall in love for a lot less than that.” He confessed pressing his EMF comfortingly against his brother’s.

There was no way Pantera would be the same bot he’d met as a youngling if they should happen to ever cross paths again. Pantera might even hate him because of his true identity. But there was still a hidden part of him that hoped his Knight-in-training remembered him, and a small, protected ember of deep affection waiting to be ignited.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King declares war on Praxus.

King Recoil declared war on Praxus before the end of the next decacycle.

Jazz could do nothing but hold Ricochet as his brother trembled with rage and sorrow after the announcement. Unable to act directly against their father’s decree.

Ricochet was to be sent to the border, to lead the Polyhexian army. Jazz was to stay behind in the palace with the King.

Neither of the brothers wanted to wage war on their Praxian neighbors. Unfortunately, the king still had the power to call his bannermechs to arms. Unless those mechs and femmes wanted to be branded as traitors and face a traitor’s deactivation, they had no choice. When they were away from the palace in the borderlands, Ricochet planned to try and sway those bannermech’s loyalties.

The cycle of the army’s departure, Jazz’s spark felt leaden. Ricochet and his retinue were at the head of rows and rows of soldiers all at attention in the palace courtyard. All of them, Miester, Stepper, all of their loyal mechs and femmes were going to the border with Ricochet. 

Jazz stood silent and filled with trepidation behind his sire in front of the assembly as the king made an overblown and long-winded speech about loyalty to the realm, sacrifice and military pride. Which was rich coming from a mech who wasn’t even going to the battlegrounds. The younger prince already felt the claws of isolation beginning to close around him. Even most of his own personal servants were being sent along with the army.

After the ceremony, Jazz barely had a chance to say his personal goodbye to Ricochet. Some of his desperation must have shown itself to his brother because Ricochet leaned forward to murmur quickly, “Don’t worry, we’ll be back together soon.” But after that the hustle of the departure preparations swept them apart. And with his sire opticking him from across the courtyard, he quickly made his escape into the castle.

Jazz had to be content with watching the army depart from the highest tower until the last of their taillights were just twinkles among the crystalline trees surrounding the palace. Then he shut himself in his rooms with his instruments, though he barely touched any of them.

Later in the afternoon, Jazz’s oldest and most trusted servant came bustling into his rooms. She was one of the few that had been allowed to stay behind due to her age. The femme, Quickgrip, had practically raised both him and Ricochet. She clucked at him sympathetically. “My poor prince, you look so tired from the stress of the cycle. You should rest. Why don’t you take a nap to refresh yourself? You’ll need your energy for later.”

“I’m fine.” Jazz said automatically, not wishing to cause the old femme any worry.

Strangely, she walked over to where he was sitting and gently cupped his face in her servos, something she’d not done since he was a youngling. Her expression was earnest and imploring. “My young lord, you should rest. It’s very important, you know.”

He suddenly understood that there was something she couldn’t tell him out loud.

“...Oh, yes, you’re right.” He said slowly. “Perhaps I’m a bit more weary that I realized. I think I shall take your advice.”

Quickgrip smiled brightly and patted his cheekridges, a gesture only she (and maybe Ricochet) could get away with. “Thank you, your Highness. I’ll just set your rooms to rights while you rest, alright?”

“Of course. I trust you.”

So Jazz laid down on his berth while listening to the soothing and familiar sounds of Quickgrip moving around his rooms. And though his processor was alight with curiosity, once laying down, he realized how emotionally drained he was and it aided him in drifting off to recharge.

Quickgrip shook him gently awake later in the evening. The sun was just starting to set upon the horizon. She pressed a cube of energon into his servos. Strangely plain and utilitarian in comparison from what usually came up from the kitchens.

She answered his questioning look softly. “Your sire sent for you to share dinner with him. I told the attendants who came to fetch you that you weren’t feeling well. I ordered this for you to keep up appearances.”

“Thank you.” Jazz murmured. The very last thing he wanted to do was be alone with his sire.

Quickgrip smiled at him and walked over to the window. She opened it wide and placed a lit lantern on the wide sill. Which was… kind of strange. But rather than any sort of explanation, she turned back to him with a bright expression and asked, “Shall we play a game to pass the time, your Highness?”

Jazz agreed, more mystified than ever. Pass the time until what?

Quickgrip pulled out Jazz and Ricochet’s old game board of Primes and Protectors, setting it up with practiced efficiency. They played until the sun completely disappeared beyond the horizon.

Just as the vesper bells began to ring there was a strange scraping sound outside Jazz’s window. Quickgrip rose, abandoning the game they’d been playing.

“Quickgrip, what-?”

Jazz cut himself off with a startled gasp when a bot poked their helm up over the windowsill.

It was Meister.

But how? Jazz had seen him leave with Ricochet and the army.

“It is time for you to take your leave, my Prince,” Quickgrip said.

Meister grinned at Jazz’s gobsmacked expression. “You didn’t think we were just gonna leave you behind, did you? His Highness made plans with me to smuggle you out the moment the King declared war.”

Elated relief filled Jazz’s spark at the news. “I-I… I’m going to need-”

Quickgrip gently placed a bundle in Jazz’s servos. “I could only pack the essentials, things you could fit into your subspace, since you won’t have a proper baggage train.” She actually looked regretful that he wouldn’t be able to take any more with him to have the proper trappings of a prince while traveling.

Jazz was just happy to have a way out. Anything was better than to be left alone at the mercy of their increasingly untrustworthy sire. 

“Will you get in trouble?” Jazz asked his servant worriedly.

“Don’t you worry about little old me. I can take care of myself.”

Jazz subspaced the bundle (which fit perfectly to completely fill it) and hugged Quickgrip goodbye. Then he walked to the window where Meister was sitting and waiting.

The black mech looked completely at ease, but a certain tense energy in his EMF belied the need to get going. A grappling hook was attached to the outside of the window frame, which explained how he’d climbed up the nearly sheer tower. When Jazz questioned how he was supposed to climb down, the mech just grinned and pulled out a strange harness from his own subspace. 

Once he’d put it on, Jazz realized how it worked. Strong straps would lash Jazz to Meister’s back and two more straps running over Meister’s shoulder would provide servo-holds for Jazz that wouldn’t impede Meisters movements as he climbed down.

Jazz allowed himself to be attached. With surprising strength, Meister hefted both his and Jazz’s weight over the windowsill.

The prince chanced one glance at the ground as he clung like a limpet to Meister’s back. One look was enough. He turned off his optical feed to the tank-roiling vertigo and hung on for dear life.

The climb down seemed to take forever. He felt strangely weightless and helpless.

But finally, finally! Jazz’s pedes touched solid ground again.

“There we are, your Highness.” Meister said lightly, freeing them from the harness. “We’ll make a wall-climber of you yet.”

As Jazz flexed his servos to get the feeling back in them again, he very much doubted it.

“We shouldn’t tarry here.” Meister murmured.

Jazz nodded.

With that, Meister led them silently through the crystal forest on pede for half a joor or so until they were a good distance from the castle. Only then did he take them to the main road so they could transform and follow in the wake of the Polyhexian army.

As they drove through the dark, a giddy lightness filled Jazz’s spark as he realized he was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run away Jazz!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz catches up with the army and they make it to the borderlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers block is a bitch...

As much as Jazz was expecting to be pursued on their journey, he and Meister had managed to escape without alerting anybot. And when he questioned Meister about their safety, the darkly colored bot informed him the Quickgrip was covering for him for as long as she could. Jazz sent a quick prayer up to Primus for her protection.

Their drive went uninterrupted and they managed to catch up with the Polyhexian army in the evening of the next cycle.

Meister led him past the camps of the regular soldiers to the grand command tent. Ricochet met him at the open tent flap and embraced him as soon as he transformed. A murmur rose up from the soldiers closest to them, slowly moving through the ranks as the news of his arrival spread. It was accompanied by a shift in the sombre mood of the ranks and even some relieved smiles began to appear on the faces of the soldiers.

“I am glad to see you safely away from that monster,” Ricochet said softly, for Jazz audials only, “though I don’t know if you’ll be any safer with me at the front.”

“We’ll be fine as long as we’re together, right?” Jazz assured him. It was an old promise, leftover from their younglinghood.

Ricochet only smiled tightly and ushered Jazz into the command tent. They shared dinner with Ricochet’s generals. Discussions revolved around the army’s movements to the border, which would take several more cycles.

Afterwards, the princes readied for recharge. Jazz was glad to see the portable recharge pad piled with meshes. What little recharge he’d gotten on the road with Meister had been quick and fitful naps while in their alt modes. They’d been much more interested in putting distance between themselves and the palace.

Jazz and Ricochet shared the recharge pad like they were younglings again, taking comfort in the other’s field. Both worrying about the rapidly approaching conflict.

The army moved slowly, but altogether too soon they had reached the borderlands. The news of Jazz’s presence had quickly swept through the ranks and had the odd effect of raising the morale amongst the troops. As if they were glad the younger prince was safe among them. 

They stopped and made their base camp on a small rise just inside their border. According to their scouts, there was a valley and another hill and then one more valley between them and the Praxian army. But that was not the only information the scouts brought.

In Ricochet’s royal command tent they’d set up a war table with a holographic overlay of the surrounding terrain and markers representing each army, forces further split and categorized by commander on the Polyhexian side. Each contingent was labeled by a symbol of their commander’s house heraldry.

With the information and image captures brought in by the scouts, they were slowly filling in the Praxian side. And it was greatly worrying. The Praxian army was half again bigger than their own.

One of Ricochet’s generals, a noblemech named Joust, pointed to one of the image captures curiously. “Why are some of the bots’ armor and weapons glittering? That’s not normal, is it?”

As the generals made their guesses, Jazz realized what they were looking at with a chill of apprehension running down his spinal strut.

“It’s crystal.” He said softly, somehow managing to cut through the speculations of the other bots.

“What was that, your highness?” Stepper asked respectfully.

“It’s crystal.” He repeated, and then clarified. “Diamond. Praxians enhance their armaments with diamond.” He looked at Ricochet. “Do you remember the Praxian knights? They wore full suits of it. Energon blades and elecrto-bolts won’t cut through it.”

Ricochet’s visor went a bit pale and he looked back at the image captures with more knowledgeable sight.

“You’re right. Not all of them have it as armor, but each soldier I see at least has a shield of it, if not a sword.”

An uneasy murmur rose from the generals.

After placing a few more markers representing some of the heraldries that the scouts had been able to get a capture and location for, they took a break for the mid-cycle meal. 

Ricochet pulled Jazz aside. “Jazz… I don’t want you to be in this conflict.”

Jazz recoiled for a klik, stung, before Ricochet rushed on able to feel the hurt in his brother’s field.

“It is so much more dire than I anticipated. You won’t be safe… I must lead the charge. That is my duty, but I may not survive and you must be able to take over if that happens.”

The hurt transformed into dismay. “Don’t talk like that! There must be something we can do. A parlay…”

Ricochet bowed his helm. “I think we both know the time for parlay is past. If I could I would, you know I would… But I can’t.” He caught Jazz’s gaze. “So please, I beg you, to hide in the back lines. I will give you a contingent of guards.”

“No! I can help! I can fight. I’m not going to let you go alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have my generals with me. All except Stepper. He will go with you.”

“No. Take Stepper with you. He is one of your most loyal supporters.”

“Jazz-” Ricochet started firmly.

But Jazz was determined to out-stubborn his brother this time. “Take Stepper with you and I’ll go hide in the luggage train. Without a fight.” He bargained.

Ricochet considered, took in the obstinate shine of Jazz’s visor, then sighed. “Alright. As long as you promise.”

“I promise.” Jazz answered instantly.

“Thank you.” Ricochet vented gratefully. 

That night-cycle a small group of servo-picked guards snuck Jazz away from the command tent to the smaller tents of the servants attending to the supply transports. The poor mechs were surprised and dismayed by his arrival. To them, the comparatively tiny tents they slept in were no accomodations for a prince of the realm! But he soothed them to the best of his ability, assuring them that being incognito was part of the plan.

Though he silently questioned to himself just how incognito he could be with his personal heraldry embossed and displayed on his chestplates as it was. He supposed that as long as no bot knew he was there and he took care to wear his cloak, he would be fairly protected from prying optics.

The next morning dawned. Ricochet commanded his generals to form up their contingents and move to the next rise beyond the valley. It was a fair distance, but he wanted to be able to see their adversaries. Thankfully, none of his generals mentioned Jazz’s absence. Perhaps they were as relieved as he was to get his brother away from the major conflict.

Moving took most of the day.

The grand command tent, the sleeping tents of the soldiers and the luggage train stayed behind as a falling-back point. When they reached the new vantage point, a large open pavillion was set up for the commanders and the prince. The war table powered on and placed in the middle of the space. They didn’t technically need it as they could now see the tank-churning masses of glittering knights and soldiers of the Praxian army with their own optical centers.

“Something isn’t right.” Meister said, clacking his claws on the tabletop restlessly. He peered at the war map with his keen red visor. They had added the last emblems that they’d been missing to the contingents. 

Ricochet’s spark twisted a bit as he laid optics on the Praxian King’s heraldry in the center of the army.

Smokescreen. Oh how he wished it hadn’t come to this.

“Wait.” Meister spoke up suddenly. “Where are the Duke of Azurite’s forces?”

Ricochet scanned the projected battlefield and noted the distinct lack of the heraldic symbol of the white crystal bloom on a red field. “They’re… not here?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Stepper said glancing from the table to the other army sitting across the valley from them. “He’s the cousin to King Smokescreen. And a renowned military genius. He should be here.”

“Maybe he’s setting up some sort of ambush?” Meister theorized uneasily.

“How?” Joust asked. “We’re all here. That would only make sense if our forces were divided.”

Ricochet frowned. “Where is he...?”

A sudden thought sent a bolt of ice down Ricochet’s spinal strut. An ambush. But not for Ricochet. The prince threw a look of horror at his bannermechs.

“He’s gone after Jazz!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses as to who the Duke of Azurite is and the first two don't count! ;)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a reunion.

Even though the army had moved a half-cycle’s march away, the luggage and supply transports had stayed behind in their original positions for safety. The fastest transport was filled with fuel to make the jaunt over the hill to deliver it’s cargo. An army moved on its fuel tank, after all.

The rest of the transports, the servants, and Jazz and his guards stayed in the clearing they’d parked in. The prince couldn’t help but gaze at the surrounding crystal trees and remember back to a simpler time spent in “his” meadow near the castle. This, of course, caused him to think of Pantera. He wondered if the mech was amongst the knights facing off against his brother across the battlefield. The thought made his spark ache. 

One of the things Quickgrip had packed into Jazz’s small bundle was his favorite twin flute. Even though he longed for a distraction, the mechs minding the supplies refused to let him help unpack the rations to be transported and passed out to the soldiers. As a prince, that was “beneath” him, apparently. So he played the flute to entertain his guards and servants to feel slightly less useless. One of the servants had pulled out a small travel chair for him that folded cleverly for easy transport.

With the rest of the army away, Jazz had abandoned his cloak under the heat of the mid-cycle sun. The extra layer of fabric had been just this side of uncomfortable. 

The notes of his flute were clear and sweet, harmonizing with themselves as he expertly played the dual pipes. His chosen repertoire was a collection of hymns; solemn and steady. He prayed silently as he played for the protection of the Polyhexian army and for Ricochet’s safety.

He reached the end of his song set, notes fading into an eerie stillness that had come over the clearing where they resided. Jazz’s plating prickled as he lowered his flute. Where were the sounds of the forest? True, some mecha-animals might have been scared off by their presence, but not even the birds were singing.

Some of his guards noticed the lack of sound as well and stood at alert, servos going to their weapons.

“Your Highness, I think you should move to the inside of one of the transports.” One of his guards said looking at the tree line cautiously.

Jazz stood.

Some of the crystals in the forest moved. Or, that was how it appeared at first. They resolved themselves into crystal armored mechs as they swiftly breached the tree line. A contingent of Praxian Knights. And they were quickly converging on the mechs in the clearing that they’d caught unawares.

A shout of alarm went up from Jazz’s guards and they immediately formed a protective line in front of him.

Most of the servants had frozen in terror. Jazz quickly ordered the unarmed mechs and femmes to retreat into one of the transports and close the door.

“You should go too, Your Highness.” One of his guards urged.

“No.” Jazz refused. He pulled his electro-crossbow out of his subspace. “I’ll not hide while you face them alone.”

And then the first clash of weapons sent Jazz’s fuel pump pounding with sickening anxiety. Jazz knew he was ill equipped to fight, only having his crossbow and his daggers. Electro-bolts would not affect the crystal armored knights. He could only hope that his guards’ show of force might make the Praxian’s reconsider their attack plan.

...Though that didn’t seem to be probable.

There were eight Praxian Knights facing his half a dozen guards. All in full crystal armor. All with crystal weapons of some kind. Spears and long swords, axes and shields.

If the servants came out of hiding the Praxian would be outnumbered, but the servants were unarmed except for whatever makeshift weapons they could make out of the camping gear. He refused to put them at such risk.

One of the knights fought in front, clearly in charge. His sword was made of nearly translucent diamond, which made it very difficult for the poor mech facing off against him. The only part of his plating visible was his exposed dermas set in a neutral frown under the crystal helmet and facemask that covered his helm. The front of his crystal chest armor was carved into the symbol of a white bloom surrounded by red dyed diamond plates. The rest of the knights were wearing tabards over their armor with the same iconography. 

It took only half a klik for Jazz to recognize the heraldry on display.

The Duke of Azurite.

Jazz took a single pedestep backwards to center his stance and raised his electro-crossbow, sending concentrated bolts of energy zipping over the shoulders of his guards. Normally, the bolts would be powerful enough to stun a bot into stasis. Unfortunately, the energy bolts couldn’t pierce the diamond armor, but it was enough to give the recipient of a shot a significant jolt of shock. Enough to make the knights they were fighting back off a step or two so his guards could have a tiny reprieve.

But the charge in the electro-crossbow would only last for so long.

Jazz ran out of energy bolts just as the Duke was able to disengage with the mech he was fighting against. Another of his contingent took his place as he set his sights on the prince. A cry of alarm went up from one of Jazz’s guards as the Duke approached him; it turned into a cry of pain as the mech’s opponent took advantage of his distraction.

Jazz’s spark spun wildly with fear as he dropped the, now useless, electro-crossbow and unsubspaced his mismatched daggers. They were all he had left to stand his ground with. 

Perhaps the Duke wasn’t expecting the prince to pull out melee weapons or perhaps he wasn’t expecting the easy stance Jazz adopted with the daggers, but something made the mech pause for just the briefest moments. Enough to throw Jazz off guard.

Then the Duke pressed his advantage.

Considering that he’d never faced down a mech coming at him with a sword before, Jazz was proud of himself for keeping his composure.

The sword flashed in the light, Jazz brought up his daggers. The energon dagger failed almost immediately, cut through by diamond. The prince was forced to discard it. Crystal blades met, delicate chiming belying the force of the blows. Jazz was forced back step by step. His furtive lessons were no match for a trained and seasoned knight.

The Duke suddenly caught the wrist of Jazz’s dagger wielding servo. He spun Jazz around in an almost dance-like move pulling the prince back-to-chestplates against him. The sword went to Jazz’s throat cables.

A soft, almost placid, voice murmured into his audial. “Tell your bots to stand down and the fighting will stop. They won’t be further harmed.”

Jazz had no reason to trust the Duke of Azurite, but the blade to his neck was very persuasive. And if there was even a chance it would save his guards from deactivation…

“Polyhexians, stand down!” Jazz yelled. “Drop your weapons!”

His guards seemed confused for a klik, even voicing a few doubts, but nonetheless began to obey. Spears, swords and other deadly instruments were cast to the ground. The noise and cacophony of the fight died.

Jazz feared what the Praxians might do now that their enemies were vulnerable, but to his relieved shock, the crystal-armored bots lowered or sheathed their weapons and began to tend to the wounded. Both theirs and the other side’s.

The sword was removed from his neck cables and sheathed. The knight took a step back allowing Jazz to turn and face him. Jazz hesitated for a klik before reluctantly offering his dagger to the Duke in a visible sign of surrender. His reluctance stemmed not from losing a valuable weapon, but from losing the material symbol of his most treasured younglinghood memory. Hopefully, it would be returned to him.

If the Duke picked up on the emotions swirling through his field, he gave no indication. The prince couldn’t really read him at all, faceplates covered by the mask and EMF muted.

The Duke offered him an arm as if to escort him.

“Come, Your Highness.” He said, oddly gentle. “We have much to discuss.”

The Duke struck a deal with him. In exchange for his willing capture, the contingent of Praxians would leave the army’s supply line alone. After all, Jazz was far more valuable than fuel stores.

His guards refused to leave him, allowing themselves to be stripped of weaponry and shackled in order to stay by his side. And one brave servant volunteered to go with him to see to his royal needs.

The rest of the Polyhexian bots were left unmolested along with the transports. Jazz could feel their optics on him as the Praxians escorted him and his “retinue” away. He was certain that as soon as they were out of optical range, the bots left in the clearing were going to send their fastest driver to inform his brother of what happened. He just hoped Ricochet wouldn’t worry too much.

They made their way through the forest on pede. Their path twisted and wound in ways that soon found Jazz quite directionally lost. The Duke seemed to be leading the group, far too familiar with a portion of the forest that was supposed to be on Polyhexian land.

After a joor or so, they emerged onto an open field occupied by a busy campsite of Praxians. 

Where were they? Had they crossed the border at some point and were now in the Praxian state?

“See that our guests get some fuel and recharge mats.” The Duke ordered his mechs.

Jazz’s guards looked as if they wanted to argue being separated from him, but he urged them to take their “host’s” hospitality. His servant was allowed to stay with him as the Duke led him to the biggest tent in the field.

The inside of the tent was comfortable, but not overly plush. Fitting for a high ranking military commander. It was split into two parts by a dividing curtain. One half was a space for meeting with others, with a table in the middle, not unlike Ricochet’s command tent. The other side was the Duke’s personal area; a recharge pad taking up most of the floor space and large subspace generator in the corner.

The Duke sat Jazz at the table and excused himself to the other side of the curtain. A Praxian servant methodically removing the crystal armor piece by piece. Another Praxian servant poured out two cups of midgrade from a simple decanter, though he easily relinquished one of them to Jazz’s servant, who then served him.

Jazz sipped the offered fuel periodically, processor too busy buzzing with worry to enjoy the taste of the exotic energon. He tensed when he heard the curtain behind him move aside signalling the Duke’s entrance.

The mech walked around to the other side of the table and sat down across from Jazz. The soleum crystal facemask had hidden a handsome visage. Optics a pale cerulean, white faceplates that matched most of his other plating. A brilliant, red chevron. 

He was so… familiar. But Jazz had never met the Duke before, he was sure of it.

Jazz realized that he’d been staring for just a few too many kliks. He glanced away.

“Ah, forgive me, but… Have we… met?”

When the mech spoke his tone was strangely warm and easy. “Yes, though it was long ago. I almost did not believe it was you, but this,” the crystal dagger was set before him on the table, “is difficult to forget. And this even more so,” A small steelsilk kerchief was placed next to the knife. Jazz’s own heraldry stared back at him in perfect intricate embroidery. A perfect match to the symbol on his chestplates.

Jazz dared not to vent for a few kliks. His gaze found the other’s, and now he could _see_ it. The mechling he’d known behind the noble’s patrician features.

“...Pantera?” He whispered, hope and elation coloring his tone. 

“Hello, Folgore. Or perhaps I should say, Prince Jazz.” The mech said with a soft smile. “Allow me to finally introduce myself properly; I am Prowl, Duke of Azurite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And next chapter they finally get to actually talk to each other. :)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations lead to complications.

“I’m sorry I never told you who I really was.” Jazz’s apology tumbled, unbidden, from his dermas. The pressure of vorns behind it. “I just… didn’t want to be the prince when I met you, and when I had the opportunity to tell you, I was afraid you would hate me for lying to you.”

“We both propagated the same transgression,” The newly named Prowl said. “And I understand why you did such a thing.” The same small smile that had been hovering on his dermas ever since Jazz had recognized him warmed even more, “I’m willing to forgive if you are.”

Jazz smiled back tentatively with a nod. “Of course… though, I’m curious. Why did you give me a different designation?”

“Ah,” The Praxian took a sip of his fuel. “It is traditional for our knights-in-training to “give up” their designations and station to keep them focused on their training. It is mostly symbolic by now. For example, I began my training by placing a carved plaque with my designation and heraldry on it into a locked box. My Master Knight kept the key until I had completed my training and gifted it back to me as a sign that I was a fully fledged knight.”

“So Pantera was the designation you picked for yourself during your training?”

“It was the one Master Knight Silverstreak picked for me.” Prowl corrected gently. He chuckled softly, “His way of teasing me, since he compared me to a felida from the first cycle he met me.”

Jazz chuckled as well, but he couldn’t help but think that the comparison was apt. He’d seen the Duke move on the battlefield. He remembered how silently the mech had moved as a youngling. He sobered.

“Your Grace-?” He started.

“Please.” The Duke murmured, somehow interrupting without being rude. “Won’t you call me Prowl? I admit I have wished to hear my real designation from your vocalizer.”

A confusing flush of embarrassment and pleasure swept through Jazz at the Duke’s request. “Prowl…”

The Praxian’s doorwings lifted and flared gracefully. Jazz remembered that Pante-_Prowl’s_ doorwings had done that when they were younglings when he was pleased or happy about something.

“May I call you Jazz?” Prowl asked. “At least in private?” He sounded so sincere and earnest that Jazz couldn’t find the spark to deny him. Not that he wanted to.

“...I would like that.” Jazz admitted.

“Thank you, Jazz.”

The way Prowl spoke the glyph of his name made it seem like something sacred. Something to be treasured.

Jazz chanced a glance at the servant who’d so loyally come with him into what they’d both thought was the wirelion’s den. The mech didn’t look overly concerned with the request. In fact he looked less like he was ready to jump into fight-or-flight now that his Prince and their “host” were on familiar terms.

“Prowl,” Jazz began again, “while I am happy to see you again, we are on the opposite sides of a conflict right now.”

“Ah yes,” the Duke said shifting back in his seat. His optics sharpened into a cooler blue as he shifted into the role of King Smokescreen’s most trusted general, “your sire’s war. A conflict started by greed and fueled by indifference and incompetence.”

Shame made Jazz look away. “The King… is not well. He is… mercurial and easily angered. We did not think he would let it go so far.”

“And yet, here we are.” Prowl’s voice was flat.

Jazz found the Duke’s optics again and leaned forward a little desperately, trying to get him to understand. “Ricochet and I would never have agreed if we had the choice. Rico tried to get messages to King Smokescreen, but they were not answered.”

A bit of the warmth returned. “I know.”

The Prince was slightly taken aback. “You… know?”

“Yes,” Prowl said plainly, “His Majesty has kept all of your brother’s letters. He treasures them a great deal.”

A small flame of outrage for his brother sparked briefly. Ricochet had been worrying himself into melancholy over the unanswered letters for orns. “Then why did His Majesty not respond?”

“I’m afraid he was unable to as much as it pained him. Thankfully, he will be able to remedy that situation very soon.”

The outrage was swiftly replaced with wary confusion. “What do you mean?”

Prowl put down his half-drunk cup, countenance steely once again. “We now find ourselves at a delicate impasse. Your brother was commanded by his King to wage war against Praxus, but now Praxus has possession of something, or rather somebot that is precious to him. Before this, the time of negotiation was past. Things have changed.”

“You planned this?” Jazz whispered.

Prowl’s voice gentled. “Not originally. We were going to force negotiations by taking your army’s supply line. But then our scouts told us of your arrival and the plan adapted. Your capture and ransom increased the odds of peaceful negotiations from a possibility to a certainty. Your King is too far gone to parley, but your brother is infinitely more reasonable.”

It stung a little that Prowl would use him as a political pawn, but that had been his lot in life since he was sparked. It was becoming more and more obvious that though Jazz remembered Prowl fondly as the young knight-in-training, he knew nothing of the mech he’d become and it made his spark ache. It must have been the price he paid for falling in love with a memory.

“And what is the ransom for the brother of a Crown Prince,” Jazz asked, only a little bitterly and mostly resigned.

Prowl leaned back in his chair, wings flared, and digits steepled. “I would say… the combined wealth of the lands and holdings of Aire Meads.”

Jazz stared at the Duke as if he’d just grown a second helm. The lands he’d just named were Jazz’s inheritance. The seat of many of Polyhex’s most profitable trades. Ricochet had once joked that once Jazz had inherited he could start his own city-state if he wanted to.

In other words, the Duke seemed to be expecting a processor-boggling sum. 

“That’s- that-” Jazz couldn’t make himself say it, brought up to be polite as he was, but Prowl finished for him. 

“Preposterous? Unreasonable? Shocking?” The edge of Prowl’s derma lifted ever so slightly. The sly smile as if he was sharing a joke, though Jazz saw nothing funny about it.

“Unexpected.” Jazz said diplomatically. “I think you overestimate my worth.”

“Never.” Prowl said with unshakable certainty. “You inspire loyalty and honor. You are the spark loved by your people. Without you the world becomes a bit darker.”

Despite the flattery Jazz felt at the words, he spoke pragmatically, “Be that as it may, my brother would not be able to raise that sort of shinax for my return. Even if he took your demands to the King.”

Prowl looked at him intently. “There is another way to satisfy the ransom.”

“...And how is that?”

“A bonding contract… to me.”

Jazz looked away, trying to process the turn in events. Prowl couldn’t possibly mean-!

The Praxian knight got up and walked around the table to where the prince sat. He gently cupped Jazz’s chin and turned his helm to catch his optical center again.

“Do you understand?” he leaned forward. For one wild moment Jazz thought the Praxian was going to kiss him, but he stopped short, their faceplates intimately close. “This is the peaceful way to end this conflict. The “ransom” offer will be given to your brother, but I ask you, Will you bond with me and secure this alliance? End this pointless conflict.”

Jazz trembled. “My Sire will never agree.”

“Then perhaps it is time for the Crown Prince to make that sort of decision.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Prowl leant back to give Jazz a bit more venting space. “King Smokescreen came to the conclusion that it may be time to encourage Prince Ricochet to take his birthright. His Majesty is quite eager to see him again and he can be quite persuasive when he wants to be.”

An icy thread of terror laced through Jazz’s spark. “You speak of treason.”

“Is it treason when the mech in power is nothing but a shade? A deranged ghost who hurts those he should protect.”

Jazz’s vents caught as Prowl gently tilted his helm forward to expose the protoform at the nape of his neck. Jazz could see his servant’s servos clenching and unclenching, as if he wanted to interfere; to remove the Duke’s servos from his prince.

“You have scars, my prince. From pain you should never have had to endure.”

Jazz pulled back and away from Prowl’s touch. Their optics met again. Prowl’s gaze was full of warmth and care and desire. As if this meant more to him than a simple alliance. As if he had missed Jazz just as much as Jazz missed him.

“Do you remember my oath?” Prowl asked.

“You promised to rescue me.” Jazz whispered.

“I did. And I always keep my promises.” He cupped Jazz’s cheekridge for a moment. “Think upon my request.” Then he left the tent.

Jazz stared after him wordlessly, a maelstrom of thoughts whirling about his processor.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricochet receives two messengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took a while. I got writer's block and started working on a different fic that will be uploaded after this one is done. Fortunately, that broke through the writer's block. :)

Ricochet sat in full battle armor on a mesh draped chair in his command tent. A hastily made “throne” for him to receive the Praxian messenger who’d arrived with King Smokescreen’s demands. Even the messenger sported crystalline bracers, greaves, and armor on their doorwings. Ricochet was tense with worry. The femme was nothing but respectful, bowing and deferentially handing over a datapad to Stepper to give to the Prince.

“Your Royal Highness,” the messenger began, “His Majesty, King Smokescreen, wished to express his regret that the state of events have turned to this action.”

“As do I.” Ricochet responded diplomatically, taking the datapad from Stepper. Truthfully, he’d been expecting the messenger since the servants from the supply line had told him of Jazz’s capture half a cycle ago.

The Praxians had obviously planned the abduction, if the expediency of the parley was any indication. Everything was moving so quickly and out of Ricochet’s control. Had he been any lesser of a bot he might have screamed in frustration.

As it was, he could only pray that his brother was being treated kindly.

He looked over the formal script as quickly as he could, optical feed searching for Jazz’s designation. King Smokescreen was offering a “truce” of sorts, provided that the Polyhexian Crown paid restitution for what had been taken in the raids, and the borders between the city-states was reset. Quite lenient, strangely enough.

And for the return of the younger Prince of Polyhex…

Ricochet stalled for a moment. He reread the sentence.

_To ensure the continued peace between our sovereign city-states, the Prince Jazz of Polyhex is to be exchanged for the lands and holdings of Aire Meads or to be bonded to our gentle cousin, Prowl the Duke of Azurite._

Ricochet felt his spark constrict in his chest. Jazz would either lose his inheritance or have to bond to some unknown mech. He knew Jazz would willingly bond to a stranger if it meant saving their home, but it seemed so cruel to put Jazz through such a thing when he’d already endured so much.

And their Sire would make both options impossible, unwilling to lose the power and shinax that came with the lands or his jealously guarded creation.

Ricochet cycled a fortifying vent and spoke to the messenger. “I will need a few joors to look over this in detail, but in the meantime, we can offer you a private tent to wait and some energon.”

“Your Highness is very generous.” She said courteously.

There was a clamour of noise outside the tent, yelling and the squeal of tires. A klik later a battered and weary Polyhexian mech stumbled into the tent. Both Stepper and Meister took a step towards the unknown bot, but the moment he saw Ricochet it seemed as if the last of his strength left him, trembling leg struts folding under him. He landed in an awkward kneel.

“Y-Your Highness, I bring word f-from His Majesty, King Recoil. H-he demands the return of-of Prince Jazz to the palace immediately.”

Ricochet stood and approached the mech. The prince took in the mech’s ragged and haggard appearance. Wear to his finish from a hard journey, yes, but also the dents and chips in his poor armor that spoke of a different sort of abuse. He recognized the barely healed lashmarks of a whip. Ricochet crouched next to him. The mech’s visor flickered up at him for a klik, fear and exhaustion mixed in his gaze.

The prince motioned to a servant. “Bring a medic and some energon. Have a tent found and set up for this mech so he can rest.”

“Right away, Your Highness.” The servant said and then quickly left the command tent to do as ordered.

“Your Highness,” the mech whispered, leaning in close to him, “please… I know it’s not my place, but I beg you… please don’t send Prince Jazz back to the capitol. Please…”

The honest plea filled Ricochet’s spark with dread. He murmured truthfully, “I have no intention of sending him back.” Not that he had any ability to anyway. “You have my word.”

“Primus bless you, Your Highness.” The mech said with a relieved sigh. “Primus bless you both. There is no mercy left in the palace. Only pain and misery.”

The Praxian messenger had stepped back when the new mech had entered the tent. Ricochet had not forgotten she was there, but she’d been pushed to the side of his processor for a moment. He looked at her. Her face was mostly unreadable, save for a small spark of concern in her optics.

He looked up at his generals. Most of them looked worried, sensitive audials having picked up on the Polyhexian messenger’s softly spoken words. Meister and Stepper both nodded gravely. Somehow able to read Ricochet’s intentions.

The servant returned with a medic who immediately began to examine the fatigued mech. Ricochet stood, leaving the medic to work without his hovering.

He turned to the femme. “Our offer of respite and fuel still stand, but I find that I have an answer for His Majesty, King Smokescreen.”

She straightened up “at attention”, doorwings spread. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Please tell His Majesty that we will be most willing to meet with him regarding this truce on the morrow at mid cycle if that suits him. I should like to discuss matters with him personally.”

She smiled with what looked like an edge of relief and pulled another datapad out of her subspace and again offered it to Stepper to give to Ricochet.. “His Majesty had hoped you would say as such and invites you and your honor guard to dine with him and his retinue at these coordinates at mid-cycle tomorrow.”

The datapad contained coordinates to a spot in the center of the meadow between the armies.

It hit Ricochet then that the Praxian King had all of the advantages stacked in his favor like a loaded deck of cards. The numbers of his army, Jazz in his grasp, and Ricochet’s traitorous spark that leapt at the thought of seeing his once-friend again. 

He swallowed, managing a bland smile and words that were almost the truth. “I look forward to our meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back to Jazz, and Prowl's attempts to win him.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz pretend for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the romancing begin.

The dark-cycle had fallen over the Duke’s camp. Jazz had been allowed to leave Prowl’s command tent and walk the edges of the camp. He was accompanied by four Praxian guards. He had no intention of running; his honor wouldn’t allow it; but he understood that they were just taking precautions.

During the light-cycle the crystal trees were a riot of colors, but now in the dark, they were a jagged balck barrier surrounding the camp like a ragged fence. They looked dense and unpassable. The lights from the camp reflected uncannily off trees in flashes and twisting shapes. 

The Prince sighed and turned his visor up to the stars. He sent a short prayer to Primus for his brother. He hoped that Ricochet wasn’t worrying too much over him.

There was the soft sound of somebot resetting their vocalizer near him. He turned to see the Duke standing close by.

“Hello Jazz.”

He could have refused to speak to the mech, but what would the point have been besides being obstinate?

“Good evening, Prowl.”

“I have… a bit of a fanciful request, if you would indulge me.” Prowl said.

Jazz tilted his helm curiously, the Duke had never struck him as a fanciful mech, even as a youngling. “Alright. What did you have in mind?”

“Let us pretend we have been introduced at some party or ball held between our city-states. We have recognized each other as our younger selves.”

It was an odd request, to be sure, but Jazz felt strangely compelled by it. It was a chance just to talk without having to think about the current state of things.

Jazz gladly fell into the pretense. “I did not expect I would ever get the pleasure of seeing you again, Your Grace.”

“Nor I, you, Your Highness.”

“Just Jazz, please, my friend.”

“And to you, I am just Prowl.”

“As you wish.” Jazz smiled tentatively at the Duke which the mech returned warmly. Prowl offered his arm. 

“Shall we take a stroll near the crystal trees?”

Jazz placed his servo on Prowl’s arm and walked at the edge of the tree line with him.

“What shall we discuss.” Prowl asked lightly. “The weather...perhaps?”

Jazz tilted his helm to the side, a challenging glint in his visor. “Perhaps. Or perhaps we could speak of more philosophical matters or history.” 

Prowl seemed delighted by the prospect.

Despite the words, they started with lighter topics, from tutors and favored subjects to music and poetry. The discussion turned more esoteric when they began to talk about ancient poets which somehow turned into a conversation about religion.

Prowl was eloquent and attentive, and very intelligent. Jazz found himself forgetting their surroundings and audience for a while. The guards were subtly following at a respectful distance, but they could have been marching in formation directly behind them and Jazz wouldn’t have noticed. He let himself be charmed by the Praxian noblemech.

The Duke’s smiles began to send his spark spinning just a bit faster.

They eventually made their way back to the Duke’s command tent. Jazz struggled a bit to keep up the charade of their walk, though Prowl smoothly kept the conversation going when Jazz faltered. The guards stationed themselves outside while the noblemechs entered the tent. They were served a dinner of fine energon.

Halfway through fueling, one of the guards politely requested entry and brought Prowl a datapad. He bowed respectfully and then left again.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Prowl said, he turned his attention to the datapad. After a klik his doorwings fluttered out in that pleased way.

He answered Jazz’s questioning look. “It is good news. Your brother has agreed to a parley. You shall be reunited with him by tomorrow evening.”

The news brought a flurry of conflicting emotions as the imaginary scene between them shattered completely.

Prowl could apparently sense the change in his field. 

“Jazz.” He said gently. “Have you considered my offer?”

“I…” Jazz paused, processor alarmingly blank. Since that wasn’t being very helpful in the moment, Jazz focused instead on his spark.

“You are… an honorable mech. You have treated me with nothing but respect. And I… find you are not so different from the mechling I remember fondly. I... would not be adverse to bonding with you.”

“I am glad to hear that.” Prowl murmured, doorwings still sitting in a “pleased” position. He signaled to one of the Praxian servants in the tent. The servant reached into a chest and pulled out a bottle of near-white engex and two small chalices. He brought them to the table and poured them each a cupful. Prowl took up his chalice and instinctively Jazz did the same. 

The Duke spoke again. “Once Prince Ricochet and King Smokescreen have conversed I will see to it that you are given the proper gifts and trappings of a Praxian betrothed.” He raised his cup to Jazz in a toast.

“To our engagement, Prince Jazz.”

Jazz took in a fortifying vent and raised his chalice. “To our engagement, Duke Prowl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but the muse was like, "Yep, that's good. Moving on!"  
Hoping to have a bit of a longer chapter next time.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to parley.

Ricochet’s retinue had been apprehensively silent during their drive to the coordinates of the mid-cycle meeting with the Praxian king. He was flanked by his generals with Meister and Stepper in the honored positions on either side of him. Servants and guards trailed behind them.

As they neared the meeting point, several open air pavilions milling with activity came into view. Each of the pavilions was a different jewel-toned color, smaller ones surrounding a larger one striped in gold and blue, flying a pennant depicting a red predacon off the apex of the center pole.

Ricochet stopped his group a polite distance away and transformed into root mode, trusting his entourage to follow suit. He led them forward as they walked into the tiny bustling “camp”.

The largest pavilion was obviously where the royalty would be entertained and fueled. Two of the others were outfitted for his lesser nobles and for his servants and guards. The rest of the pavilions either house minstrels for entertainment or cooking preparation for their fuel.

King Smokescreen sat at a lavishly dressed table waiting for him. Ricochet schooled his features even as his spark flipped in his chest. The handsome mechling had grown into striking mech. His plating shone like rubies and sapphires. Any form of crystal armor was conspicuously absent, but Ricochet was sure whatever pieces the Praxian king wore would not shine any more beautifully than his own armor. A golden crown interlocked with his chevron so it was difficult to tell where the jewelry ended and the kibble began.

Ricochet had exchanged the heavy battle armor for his golden circlet. It was delicate and wound around his audial horns artistically, picking up on the golden accents in the flame pattern on his chestplates. It was a show of trust.

Smokescreen rose out of his seat and opened his arms. “Welcome, Prince Ricochet. Please join me. And please, there is plenty of space for your retinue to make themselves comfortable.”

The implication was clear; the words, as well as the set up of the royal tent. There was only a small intimate table in the grand space. Ricochet was to face the Praxian king alone, though seeing as how everybot was in an open pavilion, it wasn’t like they were going to be in private.

As he entered the striped pavilion he could see his generals mingling with other Praxian nobles, though with one notable absence.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Ricochet said carefully, “but I do not see the Duke amongst your retinue.” Or my brother, went unspoken.

The king smiled charmingly, “He will be arriving in due time, worry not. It takes a bit of doing to move from a sizable encampment, as I’m sure you know. Terribly logistical things. Now, won’t you sit? I believe the cooks have finished preparing our fuel.”

“I see… of course. Thank you very much for your hospitality, Your Majesty.”

If there was one thing Ricochet could glean from the stories he’d heard of the quick-processored Duke of Azurite, it was that “terribly logistical things” were something he excelled at. This was some sort of stalling tactic. But Ricochet couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. The Praxians had the upper servo. What was the point of more machinations?

Ricochet was offered a seat perpendicular to the Praxian king, a servant dutifully holding it out for him. Praxian, of course. His own servants were basically being held in their pavilion, unable to wait on him or his generals. Quite the novel experience for them.

He caught Meister keeping a vigilant, hidden optic on him, which helped ease some of his anxiety. But he really wished his brother was there with him. He could have used Jazz’s calming field.

They were served delicate and pristinely white gypsum wafers, bright scarlet colored rust sticks, and beautifully transparent magenta energon.

“Now, before we get into the politicking,” King Smokescreen said in an almost flippant manner, picking up a rust stick, “tell me, how have you been? I have so missed our correspondences.”

Ricochet swallowed down a lump in his throat. He spoke softly, controlling the timbre of his voice to remain level, even as bitterness rose up, “I attempted to write to you, Your Majesty. I received no answer.” He brought his cup of energon to his lips and took a long draft to stop himself from saying anything more.

The King gave him a regretful look, “I know. And you have no idea how much it pained me to leave your letters unanswered. But my advisors could see what your sire was planning and we could not risk that a friendly correspondence be taken out of context and used to hurt you or Prince Jazz.”

Ricochet instinctively opened his mouth to refute such a claim, even now about to defend the Polyhexian king’s actions, but he stopped. No, that’s _exactly_ what his sire would have done if their letters had been discovered. The realization didn’t make it better.

“I understand.”

The Praxian king reached into his subspace and pulled out a bound stack of flimsies.

Ricochet cycled his optical center. “What are…?”

“Your letters, of course. I thought I might take the opportunity to answer them in person.”

And to the prince’s shock, Smokescreen unbound the flimsies and began to parse through them; answering questions, offering opinions, and inquiring about things Ricochet had written about orns ago.

With the letters as a catalyst, Ricochet slowly opened up. His spark warmed with happiness as he realized that the mech he’d come to know in his messages was the same as the mech in front of him.

And as he and the King became more engrossed in their conversation, Ricochet’s generals loosened up just a touch. The Praxian king and Polyhexian prince showing a sort of trust that only came from a long relationship.

Joors had passed, the minstrels were playing soft, unobtrusive music and the servants had brought out several games to entertain the Polyhexian “guests” with. It was then Smokescreen turned the conversation to the reason the parley had been called in the first place.

As the sun started to dip below the horizon, the Praxian king solemnly outlined what would need to be done to begin to mend the bridge between their city-states.

Ashamedly, Ricochet admitted that King Recoil would never agree to any of the terms. Not the recompense, not the borders, and certainly not the bonding of Jazz.

King Smokescreen nodded grimly. “As We suspected.” He said formally. “We mean no disrespect to you or your brother, but the King of Polyhex is unhinged and selfish. He hurts those he is meant to protect. Friends, allies, family, those loyal to him.”

Ricochet silently agreed, thinking back to the poor messenger who’d shown up half-beaten. Before Ricochet and his retinue had left for the parley, the mech had begged to be allowed to stay with the army, certain that the message he was meant to bring back to King Recoil would get him a greater punishment. Or deactivation.

Ricochet had let him stay. It had been the only thing he could do.

“Why speak of this?” Ricochet asked, feeling helpless.

The Praxian king straightened into a regal bearing, doorwings spreading out behind him. “It is Our belief that such a monarch is no longer fit to rule. King Recoil’s time is past.” He sat back fractionally, “Fortunately, it is also Our belief that his heir is more than capable of taking over his kingdom. If you should choose to do so, We are prepared to offer Our support if you should wish to go forth and claim your sparking-right.” 

Ricochet sat in shocked silence for a breem. His generals had also fallen silent. 

“You are suggesting… I seize the throne?”

Ricochet glanced out of the corner of his visor attempting to gauge his nobles’ reaction. They all looked strangely keen.

“Would it be seizure if it were for the good of your people? We have heard tales of the suffering wrought by the Mad King.” Smokescreen placed his servo on the stack of flimsies, “And… I know you, Ricochet.” he murmured, dropping the royal plural into something more friendly and familiar. “You are honorable and just. You will make an excellent king.”

It felt like his gaze was trapped by Smokescreen’s. His spark spun dizzily. 

The sound of approaching engines saved Ricochet from having to answer. He broke the stare with Smokescreen and saw an approaching contingent. One of the vehicles was oh-so-very familiar. Unthinking, he stood and yelled joyfully. “Jazz!”

Smokescreen chuckled, “Ah yes, it seems my dear cousin has arrived.”

Ricochet waited impatiently for the large group to get close.

Jazz obviously saw him and raced forward. He performed his almost dance-like transformation and ran the last few meters. Ricochet embraced him tightly. Jazz’s field was happy, but slightly uneasy. Ricochet couldn’t blame him, he was feeling the same.

“Are you well?” Ricochet asked, stepping back and clasping their servos together..

Jazz nodded. “Yes. I was treated very well by the Duke.”

“Truely?” Ricochet looked past his brother to the aforementioned Duke of Azurite who had also transformed by that point. The mech had the regal bearing of a royal himself, standing tall and proud, faceplates smoothed into an unreadable mask.

Did Jazz know…?

“Prince Ricochet, Prince Jazz,” King Smokescreen called, his faceplates were set in a resolute, if neutral, look, “if you both would join myself and my dear cousin in the tent, I believe the time has come for a serious discussion amongst us.”

Jazz’s servo tightened in his own, a comforting brush of his EMF following.

Yes, Jazz knew…

Jazz knew and he’d already made his decision.

Now Ricochet had to make his.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricochet makes his decision.

The parley had concluded. It had been far less nerve wracking than Jazz feared it might have been. King Smokescreen had been nothing but genteel and courteous. Ricochet had agreed to the terms of the treaty, acting like the King he should have been. It wasn’t lost on Jazz that the Praxians were also treating the Crown Prince as such. 

As the evening transitioned into the dark cycle, the Praxian King had treated them to dinner and a play put on by the minstrels. It was as much a show of trust from the Polyhexian princes as it was a show of goodwill from the Praxian King. Political theater at its finest.

Jazz and Ricochet prepared to return to the Polyhexian camp with their entourage.

The Duke approached Jazz before the group transformed and offered him a beautifully ornamented magnetic brooch displaying the heraldry of Azurite. He gently affixed the brooch to Jazz’s shoulder pauldron.

“Consider this the first of many courting gifts, my prince.” Prowl said formally, though he wore a small smile.

Very conscious of the optics on them, Jazz answered, “Thank you, your Grace. I will treasure it and look forward to whatever you might give me next.” 

Though the words were mostly for their audience, Jazz sent a brush of gratitude through his field. Prowl’s smile warmed his optics and he brought Jazz’s servo to his dermas to brush a gallant kiss to the back of it.

Jazz could hear a couple of the younger servants tittering to one another in delight. Normally they were far more subtle (as they were meant to be), but they’d been plied with high grade and relieved of the stress they’d been feeling for many cycles. Jazz couldn’t blame them for displaying their enchantment at what looked to them like a wonderful ending to the current sorrow. They were innocent of what still needed to be done.

Ricochet certainly wasn’t. He was very quiet on the drive back to their camp.

They were met with cheers upon their return. The soldiers formed a double lined path for them lit by their own headlights up to Ricochet’s command tent. The Crown Prince tiredly dismissed his generals, assuring them that he would address any concerns they had in the morning. He then guided Jazz into the tent.

Once they were safely inside and out of optic sight, Ricochet sighed softly and signaled to the servants to help them get ready for recharge. After their accoutrements and meshes had been removed and their plating wiped down with cleanser, the servants were sent to their own small tents. They were just far enough to afford some privacy for the princes, but still within audial range in case they needed something during the dark-cycle.

Jazz and Ricochet both collapsed into the portable recharge mat. Ricochet gently clasped Jazz’s helm in his servos and brought their forehelms together. His field finally unfurled from its tight curl against his plating, letting Jazz feel just how stressed and worried he’d been- and still was.

“I’m alright, Rico.” Jazz murmured.

“I know. I’m relieved for that.” He paused, “...but I need your help.”

“Of course.” Jazz said instantly. “What is it?”

Ricochet gave a small strained chuckle. “I need to convince the army to stand with me against the Forsaken King.”

“And what makes you think you need my help?”

Ricochet laughed again, though a little more freely the second time. “I thank you for your confidence in me, but I need your silver glossa. I’m better at standing in stoic silence or growling at bots.”

Now it was Jazz’s turn to cup Ricochet’s helm in his servos. He tilted his brother’s helm up until he’d achieved optic contact. “You will make a good king. I believe in you.”

“Thank you, Jazzy. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

Jazz smiled at the shine returning to Ricochet’s orange visor. “With that said, I am quite willing to listen to a practice run of this address you are planning on making and offering my input.”

The relief was evident in Ricochet’s voice. “Bless you.”

It took a few joors of soft discussion between them until they were both satisfied with the words Ricochet would say to the army. But they did finally recharge.

The morning dawned far too soon. Jazz came out of recharge to Ricochet’s field already simmering with suppressed anxiety. His brother was awake and laying on his back staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

Jazz flicked his shoulder pauldron, “Stop overthinking so loudly. You are doing the right thing.”

“I know… that doesn’t make it less terrifying.”

“I am with you.” Jazz reminded him. “We do this together.”

Ricochet vented deeply and reached a servo out blindly for his brother. Jazz took it in his own and gave it a comforting squeeze.

Ricochet turned his helm on the pillow to look at Jazz. “Let’s start a rebellion, shall we?”

They got up and Ricochet called a servant to go fetch his generals. Once they had assembled, Ricochet spoke. “Gather the bots. I have something to say to you all.”

Perhaps it was something in his tone, or his generals already had an idea of what he was about to do, but they didn’t argue with the Crown Prince.

It took less time than one might think to muster the soldiers into neat rows, disciplined as they were. But it was enough time for the princes to get ready to face the hundreds of mechs. They were shined and polished, diadems and other jewelry affixed and placed with near perfect precision. Ricochet in warm gold metals. Meshes and gems in amber and red. Jazz was his cool toned opposite, in shining silver with fabric and jewels in shades of blue.

They presented a united front as they strode out of the tent to a small platform that had been hastily erected in front of the rows of waiting soldiers. And they stood together as Ricochet started to speak.

“My mecha,” Ricochet began, “I come to you this cycle not as your Crown Prince. I come to you as one who has suffered as you have under the servo of a King who no longer cares for his mecha. A king who has exploited and betrayed all of us. A king… who has fallen to madness.” 

Ricochet paused for a moment. No bot raised any objection to his words. All listening keenly. He continued.

“I come to you this cycle to ask a great boon of you, for I will no longer stand back and watch this Forsaken King squander our lands and allies. I ask you to stand with me. It is my intention to claim my rightful throne because the king who sits upon it now is naught but a ghost who clings to life by draining it from those around him.”

Another pause as Ricochet scanned the sea of faces in front of him. Jazz extended his field, offering a silent wave of strength.

“If this request asks too much of you, I understand. And you may leave my company with no threat of retaliation. I would never ask any bot to go against their honor.”

Silence fell. Not one bot moved.

Ricochet drew himself up, EMF a tremble of fear and hope.

“Will you stand with me?”

Stepper drew his sword and raised it to the sky, followed closely by Meister and the rest of his generals. “I will stand with you, my liege!”

A roar of agreement filled the air. Mechs and femmes drawing their weapons and raising them high. Then the cacophony transformed into a litany of recognizable words shouted by the multitude in one voice.

“LONG LIVE KING RICOCHET! LONG LIVE KING RICOCHET!”

Ricochet looked at Jazz, his faceplates filled with excitement and anxiety in equal measure. Jazz smiled back at him and gracefully folded down into a kneel. The din fell quiet as the entire army followed suit and kneeled to their rightful King.

Ricochet turned back to the crowd, spreading his servos wide. “I thank you all. My generals! Prepare to march! We return to the capital!”

Another approving roar sounded and the army began to move; preparing to leave.

Ricochet helped Jazz up into a standing position.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Jazz said impishly to lighten the mood. The enormity of what he’d just done would hit Ricochet later and Jazz wanted to keep him from focusing on it just yet.

“Not until I’m crowned.” Ricochet said with a lightness that didn’t match the gravity in his EMF.

Jazz clasped their servos together. “I’m with you. We can do this.”

“Together.” Ricochet agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! Next time: The Confrontation.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The princes confront the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is kinda spoilers, but I want to err on the side of caution and put a trigger warning here for suicide.

The army was ready to march in record time. There was a levity and brightness to the soldiers that hadn’t been there when they’d left the capital. Songs and travel games occasionally broke out along the advancing lines. It was hope, Jazz realized. They had a leader they could trust and a mission that didn’t involve unnecessary deactivation.

Miles behind them, the Praxian army waited on the border. Once Ricochet was crowned, most of them would disband and go home while the royal party would be invited into the capital as honored guests. But for now, they remained, waiting as a backing force should Ricochet need it.

Finally, after a few cycles of driving and marching, the Polyhexian army re-entered the capital. Dark storm clouds had gathered on the horizon, and the soldiers had expressed their relief at being in the city proper and under the protection of the city-wide forcefield that went up whenever an acid rainstorm threatened.

Either word had gotten out to the residents, or they were just happy to see the returning princes because mechs and femmes lined the street and leaned out of windows cheering and waving colored meshes as they drove through the streets back to the palace.

They were met at the palace gates by one of King Recoil’s sycophantic counselors who started to give them some excuse as to why they couldn’t enter the castle. He was quickly shut down by Ricochet drawing steel on him.

Ricochet ordered half of his generals to set the army up as a perimeter around the palace and the rest to follow him and Jazz inside. Stepper and Meister were close behind them as they entered.

Outside, the storm broke over the city, sheeting down over the forcefield. Lightning licked the sky and thunder rumbled. If Jazz hadn’t been so worried in the moment, he would have thought it a fitting setting for the scene about to take place.

Servants scattered out of their way or found a place to drop to their knees in a bow. Fear and apprehension mixed with excitement and bewilderment at the militant formation marching through the halls. Jazz wished he had time to stop and reassure them. A couple of servants had the wherewithal to rush ahead and open the doors to the great hall.

King Recoil sat on his throne clutching his sword, surrounded by the tiny, tattered remnants of his court. It was so pathetic that Jazz almost felt sorry for him.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Why have you returned?! You leave Our borders open to Our enemies.”

Ricochet straightened. “Praxus is not our enemy. That honor goes to a mech in this room.”

“How dare you defy me, you ungrateful whelp!” The King thundered. He was speaking directly to Ricochet. 

“You let us fall to near ruin. You cut off our trade and prosperity. You failed as a king. Your time has passed, old mech.” Ricochet matched Recoil in volume and ferocity.

“You come here to usurp me?! I am your Maker. You would be nothing without me!”

“No,” Ricochet snarled back, “I am who I am despite what you’ve done to me. To us.”

Ricochet reached and clasped Jazz’s servo in his own.

The King’s visor found Jazz and the strange feaverish glow took over the orange crystal. His voice suddenly gentled, “It doesn’t have to be like this. Forget this nonsense and we can reconcile. Come here, Rhythm, stop this ridiculousness.”

A sick feeling made Jazz’s tank swim and he was suddenly so very angry at his sire’s inability to see him. He took a step forward and shouted, “Stop it, Sire. My _name_ is _Jazz_!”

The King’s visor turned back to Ricochet, anger sharpening it again. “You. Usurper. You’ve turned Rhythm against me.”

“_You_ turned your kingdom against you.” The elder prince argued back. He squeezed Jazz’s servo and then let go to grip his sword with both servos and point it at the King. “And I will not let you hurt us any longer!”

King Recoil roared in response and surged up from his throne. The great hall erupted into chaos as his courtiers either ran for the corners of the room to get out of the way of the conflict or drew their weapons. Ricochet’s generals surged forward with their own weapons and met those attempting to fight in the middle of the hall. Mechs and femmes darted about, blades clashed and shouts rang out.

In the chaos, King Recoil somehow snuck up on Ricochet. Jazz saw him as he approached from his brother’s bind spot. Word stuck in his throat as the King raised his sword. Without thinking, Jazz drew the crystal dagger out of his subspace and moved to intercept him.

The world slowed down. A shout of alarm echoed through the room that sounded like Stepper. Ricochet was turning, too late, but Jazz was already there, glittering dagger poised to meet the King’s blade as it arched downward towards Ricochet’s helm.

The blades met. And the King’s blade shattered against Jazz’s.

A shard of metal struck Jazz on the cheek just under his visor. He flinched, but didn’t cower away.

The King staggered back as Ricochet surged forward to his brother’s side. 

“Rhythm… why…?” The King said forlornly.

Silence fell as the nobles stopped fighting to watch the drama unfold.

“I am not Rhythm.” Jazz said solemnly, dagger still held defensively in front of him, mech-blood dripping down his cheek. Sadness filled his voice as he spoke a truth long held in mutual silence. “Rhythm is _dead_. He died vorns ago. Your bond is broken, and it drove you mad.”

The King stared at him for a long moment. A spark of recognition entering his visor. A moment of clarity. “I…” He looked around the room, lost. “Where…” The sword slipped from his digits. He looked back at Jazz and Ricochet. “I… hurt you…” His visor offlined in grief, he hunched over as if in great pain, servo clawing at his chestplates over his spark. “No… no… he’s gone… he’s gone…” He keened brokenly and sank to the floor.

“Sire?” Ricochet whispered uncertainly.

Suddenly the King scrabbled for his broken sword. Shock and horror rooted everybot in place as he opened his chestplates and ran his spark through with the jagged metal.

“Sire!” Jazz screamed.

The two princes rushed to his side as he slumped over. They held his graying frame between them.

His visor half-lit, staring vaguely up at the two of them. He smiled, a small bit of mech-blood slipping out of his mouth. “My mechlings…” A look of confusion crossed his faceplates. “When did you grow up?”

Jazz held back a sob. He placed his servo on his sire’s cheekridge. “Just rest now, Sire.”

Ricochet swallowed down a lump that wanted to break free as a keen. “We’re here, Sire.”

“My mechlings,” Recoil repeated, looking oddly at peace. “I love you both so much… Rico… Jazzy... Rhythm and I are so proud of you… my sweet mechlings…. grown to mechs…”

Then his spark silently guttered and his frame turned to dull gray.

Ricochet held Jazz, a look of stoic pain on his faceplates, while his younger brother wept. They mourned not the death of the Mad King, but the loss of a sire long ago. For what once had been and now could never be again.

Those in the room with them put down their weapons and kneeled.

It was Meister’s voice that cut through the stifling stillness,

“The King is dead. Long live the King.”


	16. Chapter Sixteen and Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Polyhex moves on from the shadow of the Mad King.

Ricochet was crowned almost immediately, in a small, sombre ceremony. Anything more elaborate seemed inappropriate since King Recoil’s funeral had just preceded it no more than a joor previous. The late king had been entombed alongside his beloved sparkmate with the honors of his rank and estate.

After the funerary rites had been performed and the new king acclaimed, the city-state threw itself into the preparations for the royal wedding of Prince Jazz to Duke Prowl. The gloom and sadness melting away to welcome in a new beginning for the kingdom. The wedding was to be a great celebration of unification and of the reopening of the border between Polyhex and Praxus.

While most of the courtiers busied themselves with the wedding preparations, Ricochet quietly dismissed or arrested the courtiers who had backed his sire. Some of them had just been too afraid to go against the Mad King, but some had been feeding into his delusions to get power for themselves.

The wedding was to take place in the Polyhexian capital since Jazz had a higher status than his soon-to-be bondmate, though more celebrations were planned for when they arrived at the Duke’s home in Azurite for their honeymoon. Through the planning, the Praxian royal court was present in the capital as honored guests.

And, of course, this meant that not only were there glossas waggling about Prince Jazz and Duke Prowl, but also about the interactions between the two kings. Fortunately most of the rumors were positive; the Polyhexian populace loved their new king and the Praxian king was charming and well-liked.

With the Duke of Azurite came a multitude of fine courting gifts for the prince. Everything from a crystal berry tree to paintings. A diamond encrusted fan, exotic Praxian fuel, and a fancy chalice that the fuel came in. The most memorable gift, however, was a blue crystalline turbohound puppy, budded and sparked from a line of turbohound only found in Praxus. When presented with the tiny mecha-animal, Jazz had cooed and cuddled it close to him. It now followed him everywhere, basking in his attention. He’d named it Lapis.

Through all of this, Jazz and Prowl had grown closer. Able to spend time together without any looming threats hanging over them. It was as if they were trying to make up for lost time, though they were to be bonded and would spend the rest of their functioning together. Their walks and conversations were the best part of Jazz’s cycles and they could often be found together.

The flurry of preparations finally came to a head on a bright morning several orns after Ricochet’s coronation. Ricochet had entered Jazz’s chambers along with the dozen servants who were there to polish and wax him to a crystalline shine.

“Are you nervous?” Ricochet teased lightly.

“Only that my brother is going to outshine me at my own bonding ceremony.” Jazz snarked back with a smile.

Ricochet laughed. It was a pure, happy sound that was becoming more and more common as time separated them from the past. “I would never dream of such a thing, Jazzy.”

It was expected that Ricochet would be resplendent as a King should be. He was also polished and waxed, his flame accents having been retouched that very morning, and he wore a layered red and gold cape with his heraldry embroidered on the back. He was also wearing a fabulously elaborate crown gifted to him by King Smokescreen. Red, orange and yellow garnet caught the light and sparkled like dancing flames upon his helm.

Ricochet continued, “By the time your attendants are done with you, everybot will forget I’m even present.”

Jazz chuckled, “I doubt it.”

Ricochet gracefully sidestepped around the fluttering servants and the turbohound pup as it gamboled around in the jovial chaos. He took Jazz’s servos into his own, “I just want you to know that I’m glad you’re happy. I had my doubts about Duke Prowl, but I can see that he cares for you a great deal. In fact I think the mech would attempt to move mountains if it meant your happiness.”

Jazz’s smile grew warm and besotted. “Yes. I care for him a great deal as well.”

Ricochet squeezed his servos. “Good. Well, I’ll get out of the way then and leave your primping to the professionals, shall I?”

He dodged a playful flick of a polishing cloth from Quickgrip who was overseeing the prince’s preparations and moved to stand out of the way. Jazz had been visibly relieved when his carrier-like servant had come out of hiding after their return to the palace.

Jazz had no reason to worry about being outshone by his brother. When the servants were done, he was standing in shimmering gloss. In one servo he held the diamond fan. On his waist in a magnetized holster was the crystal dagger. A white cape, embroidered all over in a geometric diamond pattern, encrusted with tiny chips of white crystal, trailed long behind him and a diamond and sapphire silver diadem sat on his helm from which flowed a servo-spun steel-silk lace veil which had belonged to his carrier. His arms and neck cables were laden with more sapphires set in ornate frames of silver. His personal heraldry had been stenciled on his chestplates in glittering enamel, but the small brooch with the Duke’s heraldry rested between his headlights.

Lapis yipped and bounded gleefully over to his master, but was caught by Quickgrip. “Not this time, little nibbler.” She chided gently. Before he could squirm out of her hold, she had somehow slipped an embellished harness and leash on him that matched Jazz’s cape. The turbohound didn’t seem to know what to do when she put him down, helm cocking back and forth in confusion. Jazz chuckled and knelt down scratching him under the chin which set his tail wagging.

When he stood up again, Ricochet asked, “Are you ready?” He had a soft, yet bittersweet smile on his dermas. After the bonding ceremony and celebration Jazz wouldn’t live in the capital anymore. Of course he’d be welcome to visit at any time, but he would be spending most of his time divided between living in the holdings of Azurite in Praxus and Aire Meads in Polyhex, traveling between the two with Prowl.

Jazz gave his brother a smile and a gentle brush of love through his field. “I am.”

Ricochet offered his arm lightly. “Then let’s get you to the cathedral.”

They traveled to the cathedral in a small open air transport. Jazz and Ricochet sat in the forward facing seats waving to the cheering crowds that lined the streets while Quickgrip sat unobtrusively on the other side of the transport and kept hold of Lapis’ leash. She was joined by two other servants who would hold up the long train of the cape for Jazz as he walked.

The Praxians were already waiting at the cathedral.

Collectively, they’d decided that for maximum theatrics, Ricochet and Smokescreen would “give away” Jazz and Prowl on the cathedral steps so that the most amount of bots could see it. Then he and Smokescreen would enter after them together. Adding yet another block to the building trust between the two city-states.

As Ricochet helped Jazz out of the transport, the prince could see Prowl waiting for him in the huge, open doubled doors of the cathedral. And though the much more colorful Praxian King stood beside him, Jazz only had optics for the regal white and black mech. Polished to a nearly mirror shine visible even under the suit of crystal armor; this was far lighter and more ornamental than his battle armor. He was sans the faceplate-blocking helmet, which was tucked securely under his arm. This armor was for awe and show rather than any sort of fight. Prowl seemed just as riveted, staring with adoration at the mech who would soon be his bondmate as Ricochet led Jazz up the steps.

They did not have time to speak as the theatrics of the ceremony had already begun.

“Duke Prowl of Azurite,” Ricochet said, voice carrying over the hush that had fallen over the crowd, “I give into your care Our beloved brother.” He gently extended Jazz’s arm into the space between them.

Smokescreen spoke next, raising Prowl’s arm in the same manner. “Prince Jazz of Polyhex, I give into your care Our gentle cousin.”

They clasped servos and, after Jazz gave his brother a kiss on the cheekridge, they walked in through the doors together. The cathedral was full to bursting with standing-room only. 

Prowl and Jazz stood before the priests, one Polyhexian, one Praxian. The ceremony was a mix of Polyhexian and Praxian traditions. This was most apparent when it came time for the exchange of bonding gifts.

The Duke presented the Prince with a finely crafted crystal dagger; a match to the one he wore on his waist. It, too, had a magnetic sheath and Prowl affixed it to his other side, complimenting the original.

“In remembrance of our first meeting.” Prowl said with a soft smile.

“I will treasure it just as I have the first one you gave me.” Jazz promised.

The Prince’s bonding gift to the Duke was a song he’d composed that he sang right there in front of the whole assembly.

“In honor of your integrity and fortitude.” Jazz said when he’d finished.

“You humble me with your talent.” Prowl replied.

Then, bright bands of colored ribbon were wrapped around their joined servos, signifying their bond. The Polyhexian priest proclaimed them to be bonded in the optics of Primus. They brought the crests of their forehelms together and the Praxian priest rained down gold and silver shavings out of a crystal chalice over their bowed helms signifying the same in the Praxian tradition.

Then Prowl kissed Jazz ever-so-gently and the cathedral erupted into cheers.

They rode back to the palace together in a transport while Ricochet and Smokescreen rode in their own transport, preceding them. Lapis was finally allowed to sit happily on his master’s lap on the ride back.

“Jazz,” Prowl leaned over and murmured to him as they passed the exuberant crowds. He sounded strangely hesitant, at odds with the current atmosphere. Jazz looked at him questioningly. He continued, “perhaps this isn’t the time to ask, but I wish to know… could you, perhaps in the future, find it in your spark to… learn to love me as I have come to love you?”

Jazz leaned in so that he could rest his helm crest on Prowl’s again. His field reached out warm and sure. “That may be quite difficult, your Grace, since I think I’m already in love with you.”

Prowl learned back in surprise, doorwings fluttering, then a jubilant smile took over his dermas and he kissed Jazz again, field full of love, hope and joy.

When they arrived back at the palace, the feast had been laid out. Table had been spread out from the great hall to the courtyard for all who wished to enter and partake. Different minstrels entertained in every space. 

After the feast, the great hall had been cleared and the dancing began. Not only did the newly bonded couple dance, but the two kings did as well, sharing a silent smile at the memory of their youngling selves.

And in true Polyhexian tradition, the party didn’t end until dawn.

Epilogue: 

10 Orns Later

Ricochet transformed gratefully after a long day of driving. Around him, the royal retinue did the same and then began to unpack the transport in the courtyard of the Silver House in Aire Meads. Jazz and Prowl had invited both Ricochet and Smokescreen to their spring and summer home to celebrate the summer solstice.

Jazz emerged out of the doors of the Silver House with a bright welcoming smile and a flurry of servants in tow. A now grown Lapis trotted loyally at his pedes. Behind him Prowl emerged at a more sedate pace, but with a similar welcoming smile.

As Ricochet got close enough to mesh fields with Jazz, he felt a difference. True, he’d not seen his brother in several orns, though they kept in close contact through letters. Since he’d known Jazz for his whole functioning, he noticed it immediately. There was a layer to his field that hadn't been there before, but his brother’s EMF felt light and happy. Almost… effervescent in a way…

In a flash it hit him, his own field surged joyfully. He took Jazz’s servos in his own. “You’re with spark.” He said in wonderment.

Jazz laughed merrily. “I told you he would know as soon as he got close to me,” he said over his shoulder to his bondmate.

Prowl smiled. “So you did, my love.”

“Congratulations!” Ricochet laughed, giving Jazz an enthusiastic, if still gentle, hug.

“Have you told anybot else yet?”

“You’re the first to know!” Jazz said, taking Ricochet’s servo to lead him inside. “We’ll share the good news with King Smokescreen when he arrives tomorrow.”

Ricochet smiled as he listened to Jazz speak in eager excitement about their plans for the sparkling’s rooms, specs, and potential designations. Behind them, Prowl’s EMF provided a calm, protective barrier at their backs as he kept pace with the brothers, but let the two of them catch up without being overbearing. 

Jazz’s happiness filled Ricochet’s spark with joy and warmth. It tempered the nervous anticipation he was feeling at seeing Smokescreen again. The small datapad upon which Ricochet had written a courting poem for Smokescreen felt weighted in his subspace. But it felt like the right time to make his suit. They treasured their deep friendship and often traveled to see one another. 

And the flirting between the two of them had begun to reach truly ridiculous levels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Jazz and Ricochet are approx. 13 and 15 (in human terms) respectively at the beginning of this fic.


End file.
